Locke Cole's Final Repose
by Scribe Figaro
Summary: Nine years after the death of Kefka, the surviving FF6 characters combine forces to face what evils may come in a magic-barren land.
1. One

LOCKE COLE'S FINAL REPOSE   
  
By Scribe of Figaro   
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a sequel to Terra Branford's Flight of Fancy. You might want to read it before starting this story, but you don't really have to.   
  
People who have read this earlier might notice that the format to this story has changed greatly. I decided it was a bit annoying to my readers to see me add to this story only a few pages at a time. Instead, I turned each chapter into a section and began collecting four of these sections per chapter. This makes each chapter around ten pages long, a goodly amount for an episodic work.   
  
I've gotten into some racy material, I admit, but in this story I center on action, passion, and violence. Sex was necessary, even flaunted in "Terra Branford's Flight of Fancy." Here it's only incidental, and far less graphic except where absolutely necessary. I like it better this way.   
  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE   
  
**I. RELM'S INTENT**   
  
Relm Arrowny sat cross-legged on the soft, polished pinewood of the tiny outdoor dojo. She was breathing slowly, her hands in loose fists and her eyes closed. With each breath her tight tank top stretched across her small but mature chest. Her baggy pants fluttered in the wind. Her bare feet itched slightly and her red, curly hair was coming loose from her bandanna, but she resisted the urge to move her hands and fix either discomfort.   
  
She should have been meditating, but she found it difficult. Her mind-clearing exercises were no use now. Each time she got near that state of mental relaxation a thought arose in the corner of her vision. Like a colorful stone, it attracted her attention and forced her to grab at it.   
  
Terra Branford has been dead for five years.   
  
That was the thought she continued to grasp at. It was painful, giving her a sinking feeling in her chest and the mild physical sensation of needing to cough, vomit, and use the bathroom all at the same time. The feeling was painful, but so strange she nearly enjoyed it. She allowed her mind to grasp at it like a child who cuts her hand on a thorn and laughs at the sight of red blood flowing from injured fingers.   
  
Terra married Edgar very shortly after Celes and Locke's wedding, and few people noticed she was pregnant at the altar. There was no physical sign of such a thing, of course. She was far to early on. But Relm knew Edgar wouldn't have arranged a wedding so quickly unless there was a good reason for haste, and Edgar considered a woman's honor an important thing.   
  
Edgar fucked her, all right. Oh, of course, they would have said "make love" or "doing God's will" or some such tripe. But Relm knew what it was, and even though she was inexperienced back then she was still knowledgeable. Strago was an old fuddy-duddy, and Relm hadn't much difficulty sneaking out at night and having a time with some of the more interesting older boys in Thamasia.   
  
Strago was dead too.   
  
That thought hit closer to home, and she felt she might cry. But she didn't. Grief had a way of sneaking up on you, lying dormant for years, and then the slightest thought, word, or smell brings everything rushing back like a flood of rotting memories. But Relm could usually see such things coming, and she did now.   
  
Strago had been sick for months, ill with perhaps pneumonia. He languished for a while and died shortly after Edgar's wedding. Relm wasn't even there. She was in Doma, training in Sabin's dojo. Then again, she might have been painting, or sleeping, or taking a bath. She had no idea what time it happened, and she didn't care to know. So many people had been talking about where they were when Kefka moved the goddesses like it was of any importance what people were doing at the time. It sickened her to think such menial tasks as raking the leaves or cooking dinner were to forevermore mean something because people had unknowingly chosen to do them when Kefka damn near destroyed the world.   
  
It didn't matter to her. All that mattered was that Strago died and Relm was alone, fourteen, headstrong, and at a loss of what to do next.   
  
So she decided to continue what she did before - live in Doma, study under Sabin, and paint in her free time. She hadn't sold much artwork, though her technique steadily improved. When she traveled to Jidoor she often had good business, and she typically made a lot more money when she went through the extra effort to wear an expensive dress, makeup, and a disgustingly arrogant smile.   
  
Nine years later, very little has changed. She still lived in Doma, still studied martial arts, and still traveled to Jidoor regularly to sell her work. She was actually supporting herself now, and since Sabin refused to allow her to pay him back for the room and board he had given her for so long, she had saved up a fair amount of cash.   
  
There was still the matter of what she wanted to do with it.   
  
If she thought it were possible, she would have traveled to Figaro, comforted Edgar, and then slept with him. She wanted him very much, but she knew such a thing would not happen. She had visited him a few times with Sabin, and Relm knew her advances would only hurt him. Losing his wife killed off that part of him that once loved. Edgar was thirty-nine years old, a sad sack of a man who had cut his hair short the day his wife died, hair that sported streaks of grey, hair that often fell over his eyes to hide his tears when he broke down in his throne room, ran to his bedchambers, and threw back the bottle of elixir until his pain receded and he collapsed in a drunken faint.   
  
She could see beyond his flaws, though. She didn't care about what he had become because Relm knew that, given the chance, Edgar could love again. He could love Relm, and they would be happy together. So she had thought for the first two years of Edgar's grieving.   
  
But Edgar shaped up, slightly. He still drank, but at least he appeared decent while in public. His hair remained short, but trimmed so that the gray streaks only accentuated his physique. He looked a lot more like Sabin, actually.   
  
Sabin. Relm had grown to like him over the past few years. At first it was only his ineffable physical resemblance to Edgar that started her attraction. Then it was his position of authority over her, the fact she was his student and to love him would be the ultimate taboo. She liked that idea, the indescribable wrongness of it all. And finally, she became attracted to Sabin for the man he was, rather than the man she wished he was. Sabin was so kind to her, to everyone. He was friendly, interesting, strong, attractive, and a lot more intelligent than many people gave him credit for.   
  
She liked the way he regarded her advances with almost idiotic surprise. She backed off repeatedly to keep from scaring him off, but eventually she would not stop.   
  
Relm was twenty-two years old now. She had the experience she wanted as a younger girl, though mostly in the sweaty fumblings of teenage lust, five minutes of foreplay followed by barely a minute of action where she would mutter half-assed assurances and compliments to the boy. She knew there was more, and she wanted it.   
  
She wanted Sabin.   
  
She would have him soon.   
  
Relm smiled, took another breath, and finally let her mind drift to that place where everything slowed down and was at peace.   
  
  
  
**II. CELES'S PLEA**   
  
She sat outside, accompanied only by the night. A worn bandanna wove itself through her fingers, and she cried softly.   
  
It hadn't been this way all the time. The white porch swing affixed to the deck of this tiny Kohlingen abode was once a scene of laughter, of cuddling, of furious groping and stolen kisses. It had been that way for years. She thought it would always be that way.   
  
Celes exhaled, her breath forming clouds in the cold air. She was part of the night. The Ice Queen, General Celes Chere. As she once was, she would be again. A loner. A soldier.   
  
It had been a week since she last saw Locke. He had business in Zozo, and though she didn't want him to go, and especially not alone, he had done so. She had changed sometime over the years, and he knew it. No longer was she comfortable with her sword. No longer could she fight for her cause, her army, her husband, or even herself. She became accustomed to housework, doting, and cooking. And as she refocused her attentions, she lost something. Losing that cool part of her, that sharp icicle that was her strength and her weapon, caused her to lose a part of something that was once important to her. She had grown soft. The muscles she had once toned and strengthened were wasted away. Her feminine curves were earned at the expense of her warrior physique.   
  
All that had once been important to her. But not anymore. Her memories of what she once was, what she once stood for, were lost as well. She couldn't tell exactly what was missing, and it pricked at her psyche like a mosquito.   
  
A week without word from him wasn't too far out of the ordinary. True, he had never gone more than three days without sending a letter, but there was always the chance he might forget, right? What if he found the treasure he sought in some deep catacombs and needed a few days in its depths to plan his method of removing it?   
  
She was so blissfully stupid about it that the Celes Chere of ten years previous would have found it sick.   
  
But then the letter came, and the letter changed everything. It came from the mayor of Zozo.   
  
_"Dear Ms. Celes Cole. It is with great regret we must inform you - "_   
  
She stopped. The last fragment of the warrior in her took control of her hands, crumpled the letter, and dropped it to the ground. The voice in her head, strong and demanding but often silenced, told her she was unable to handle this. Not now. And not alone.   
  
She continued to sit outside. Alone. She couldn't handle this.   
  
Alone.   
  
On impulse, she went back inside, indifferently kicking the balled-up letter at her feet. She picked up a parchment and a pen and stopped.   
  
Who to write it to? Who could possibly help her? She searched her memory.   
  
A boat ride. A hand on her cheek. His arm around her shoulder. A smile. Understanding. Kindness.   
  
She smiled and began to write.   
  
  
  
_Dear Edgar,   
  
I am in trouble. I can't explain it fully - I don't know exactly what happened, and if I did I'm not sure how I would handle it. I'm sorry if this makes no sense, but I need you here soon. Please.   
  
Celes_   
  
  
  
It was rudimentary. Not befitting the summon of a king. Perhaps he would think it the ravings of a sex-starved adulterer. No, not Edgar. He would read and understand.   
  
She sealed the letter and, unable to sleep, waited until morning when she could send it off.   
  
  
  
**III. EDGAR'S RESPONSE**   
  
Edgar stood at the topmost battlement of his castle, a small bottle of elixir loosely held in one hand.   
  
_Amazing_, he thought. _Five years and still it hits me like a load of bricks. I thought I smelled her perfume today, and it tore me to bits._   
  
There was still guilt in his heart, though he tried very hard to absolve himself. Or had he?   
  
Before their first anniversary Terra had given a stillborn child. It hurt her badly, and Edgar had forced himself to remain strong for her. They named it Alex, for it was a boy.   
  
_Not "it" goddammit, "he." He was a boy. Our child, taken from us in the womb. Ours to hold for a few moments. And ours to bury._   
  
For nearly a year Terra remained untouched by Edgar. Her difficulty with intimacy frightened him, but it was certainly founded. He didn't ask her why or prod her in any way. They didn't even talk about it. He merely held her, for it was all he could think of. As the months passed she grew closer to him, and the old life in her returned. Not all of it - there was some part of Terra that was spilled, some soft part of her that couldn't survive the death of their child. But when Terra was ready for him and came to the realization Edgar had waited for her and only her, they loved each other again, far stronger than before.   
  
Even Edgar would admit it was fantastic. They spent nearly an hour just becoming familiar with each other. And then . . .   
  
Edgar grinned.   
  
But Terra wouldn't allow herself to become pregnant again. That wasn't a problem; there were ways of facilitating such a need. She had been told by her doctor that the likelihood of her having another bad pregnancy was fairly high, and Terra knew she couldn't deal with such a horror again. Even if she were willing, Edgar wouldn't allow her. Not so soon, at least.   
  
She had been concerned for him. He was a king. He needed successors. What good was she if she couldn't bear his children?   
  
"I love you," he had said to her. And he said it with such incredible sincerity that the weight of those words had driven her back, almost frightened by how strongly he felt. And then she loved him back.   
  
Nobody could explain what happened four years later when Terra became pregnant again. If Terra intentionally sabotaged their efforts, she would never live to tell. And if it had all been an accident - well, that was just as bad. He'd rather believe it was fate, though. It was so much easier to blame chance, even blame himself in some permutation of cause and effect that only made sense while sufficiently drunk, than blame Terra.   
  
There was nothing wrong with the pregnancy. Nothing that could be detected, at any rate. When the time came, Edgar braced himself for tragedy. He didn't brace himself enough.   
  
It was a breech birth. He was told about it as soon as it happened by a nurse. And Edgar's first cursed thought was his coin, the illusion of choice. And he wished with all his might that, given the choice of only one life, his wife would be spared and the baby would die. He could live without the young girl she bore (which was never named, Edgar didn't have the capacity to do such a thing when the time came) as long as Terra survived. Such thoughts would haunt him for years.   
  
Fate, it seems, is strange like that. There was no choice. Both Baby Figaro (the name engraved on the mausoleum in South Figaro) and Terra were taken. The baby died nearly instantly, but Edgar was allowed into the room in time to catch Terra's last moments of consciousness.   
  
"I love you," he said. "I love you," he said again. And then, feebly, "Please don't leave me."   
  
There was blood. So much blood. In later nightmares he would find himself and his love drenched in it.   
  
Her face was pale, even more pale than usual, but she didn't seem to be in much pain. She smiled at him, allowed his kisses over her face, and she whispered her final words.   
  
"Thank you."   
  
There was probably more, but for all he knew the two words were simply the product of delirium. She remained in a coma for about and hour and died.   
  
Edgar stood by her side, holding her hand, and only left the body when another nurse and a palace guard pushed him aside and gently led him to his room. Had he tracked bloody footprints down the hall and marked the walls with his crimson hands? He thought so, but wasn't sure. The nightmares replaced his memories of that time.   
  
He locked himself in his room for ten days. Figaro was a mess. To prevent a war of succession, Sabin was called for. Despite having no interest in temporarily leading the castle, he did so. He arranged the funeral for Terra and her child, the funeral Edgar could not be urged into attendance.   
  
Edgar spent essentially all his time sitting on the bed, staring slackjawed at the wall, not seeing anything. If food was placed before him, he would eat. If talked to, he would pay attention for a few seconds and then blank out. His mind was otherwise occupied. Over that week and a half he relived his wife's death a thousand times.   
  
Locke and Celes came to see him, and Celes cried for him when he made no response to her words. Locke could only look around anxiously. Sabin felt about the same way, but spent less time with Edgar than he wanted to. Sabin had to at least pretend that Figaro was under some sort of order.   
  
There was Relm, too. Seventeen years old at the time. She hugged him, kissed him, told him everything would be alright. But it wasn't long before she realized the danger in taking advantage of him at that time. She had sat down with him, talked for hours in hopes there was someone inside his head that might listen, and then left with the others.   
  
Eleven days after the death of his wife, Edgar awoke refreshed and happy. He surprised everyone when he ascended the throne and began preparing himself for the business he missed. One would have thought whatever stimulant he was on ought to be illegal, but his actions were not related to drugs. Not yet, in any case. He had sprung back from his grief with too much force, and when a young woman with a hairstyle similar to Terra's came to the throne room, Edgar shattered like glass.   
  
He ran to his room crying, tore open a vintage bottle of elixir, and after finishing it, fell into the first bit of restful sleep for over a week. Such a scene would be oft-repeated in the Desert Castle for the rest of the year.   
  
When Sabin realized Edgar wasn't getting any better, he enlisted professional help. And when Edgar came to the realization that he wanted help, he began to get better.   
  
Lessened work schedule. No more liquor. (This wasn't completely true, there were occasions it helped, such as tonight.) Write in a journal. When you feel yourself begin to break, count to ten.   
  
It helped. It really did. He no longer had nervous breakdowns, though he often felt the need for a crying fit. He could hold it back long enough to excuse himself and walk to his room, though. And even those occurrences were less and less.   
  
Like tonight. When was the last time he felt this way? Probably a month ago, maybe more. And even through these horrible fits of emptiness, Edgar was glad. He was happy to know that, no matter how much time passed, his mind would never allow himself to forget her.   
  
What had caused it this time? Perhaps he had smelled her perfume, or something similar. It didn't matter now. His thoughts had flowed out, and the grief had been spent, at least for tonight.   
  
Edgar reached into his pocket and fished out a handkerchief. He felt a thick square of parchment beside it.   
  
The letter. He almost forgot about it. Sometime in the afternoon he picked it up, but was called away by some urgent matter. Urgent at the time, anyway; he couldn't remember what it was anymore. He had placed the letter in his pocket and forgotten it.   
  
Edgar broke the seal and unfolded it. A frown crept across his face.   
  
_Celes? My dear, what could be troubling you so?_   
  
He didn't like the tone of the letter - not at all.   
  
He carefully refolded the message. Figaro could go for a day or two without its king. He could leave this evening and arrive in Kohlingen before morning.   
  
Yes. That would work. It would be best not to waste time.   
  
Edgar placed the letter in his pocket and made his way downstairs.   
  
  
  
**IV. DARK LAUGHTER**   
  
He was a dark man. It wasn't a thing of ethnicity: his skin was lightly tanned, but not remarkably dark. His clothing was black, but that wasn't it either. He had black hair and a black mustache, and neither of those quite summed up the darkness about him.   
  
It was his soul that was dark. His present company probably wasn't philosophic enough to realize that fact, but deep in the recesses of his mind, something knew. The dark man had black eyes, like two black-greased ball bearings stuck in smooth plaster.   
  
He wore a black tunic and black cape, with a heavy silver chain around his shoulders. There was a thick medallion affixed to this chain, and it hung just below his heart, assuming the man had one. On the medallion was a carved relief pattern that sometimes looked like a cuneiform character and sometimes looked like an eye, depending on how one looked at it. The man's associates found it disturbing to the point that they no longer looked at it.   
  
The man's well-manicured fingernails rapped on the desk.   
  
"Are you sure?" said the dark man, eyeing the person before him with suspicion.   
  
"Yes, Morgan," he said, for that was the dark man's name. "I saw him myself. He had been floating in the lake for a good day or two, and his face was pretty much unrecognizable. But I knew it was him anyway." The man's voice caught in the middle of the last sentence, and he cleared his throat. If Morgan didn't believe him, he was of no use to the man. If that were true, the body he had seen would have him for company.   
  
"Describe him, Richard," said Morgan.   
  
Richard cleared his throat again. "He was wearing a denim jacket. It was pretty badly frayed all around, so it was probably badly worn even before he went in the drink. Underneath he had a thick white shirt. He was wearing dark pants, but his feet were bare. He had brown hair, about shoulder length."   
  
"Was he wearing a bandanna?"   
  
"No, but if he was, I'll bet it was washed away. There was a bandanna in one of his jacket pockets, at least I think. It was so waterlogged I couldn't even tell what color it was. Might've been a handkerchief."   
  
Morgan smiled. It was a good sign that Richard would not die today, but seeing those cunning little teeth made him shiver nonetheless.   
  
"I'm glad to know the deed is done," Morgan said. "Though I'm mildly annoyed I hadn't the pleasure of slicing him myself. I wonder if my benefactor will ever claim his reward?"   
  
Now realizing Morgan was satisfied, Richard knew it was again safe to speak freely. "I don't think so. Not after two days. And not for a 10,000 GP bounty."   
  
"I agree," said Morgan. "This guy was good, I'll admit to that. I wouldn't be too surprised if our unlucky bounty hunter got one in the gut before he took out that fucking thief. He probably died very slowly out in the woods, dreaming of the reward as the vultures lined up around him."   
  
Richard grimaced. He hated when Morgan waxed poetic.   
  
"If that's the case, guess I should thank the fool for saving me from paying out the reward money," Morgan said.   
  
"Too bad he's dead," Richard replied. He hadn't meant it to be a particularly funny joke, but Morgan suddenly laughed. It was a mild tittering at first, but it built up into peals, then roars of laughter. Richard, assuming he was dismissed and not caring if he wasn't, turned about and left the room. Once outside, he shivered again, the spasms beginning at his waist and running up his spine to his shoulders.   
  
He also hated to hear Morgan laugh.


	2. Two

CHAPTER TWO   
  
  
  
**I. MASTER SABIN**   
  
Four students, each dressed in loose, cotton clothing, stood facing the front of the dojo. The two male students were bare-chested, undoubtedly a subtle imitation of their Master. The girls, of course, were more modest and wore _gi_s. This was a place of solemn respect, after all.   
  
"Alright, last one. Hurricane punches on my mark." The man at the front of the dojo faced his students, arms crossed over his well-defined chest. His blonde hair was shaved very short, with a small ponytail near the back. His loose blue pants were secured and bloused at the ankles. He was barefooted, as were his students.   
  
"Go!"   
  
Resounding _kiai_s filled the room as the students released a flurry of punches in the technique they had been taught.   
  
Sabin smiled. "Very good. That's enough training for today."   
  
His students ceased punching and stood at attention. Typically, there would be a brief non-contact sparring session after each match. True, it wasn't as fun as the real thing. But Sabin knew that having all-out sparring matches more than once every few weeks would cause fairly numerous injuries among his students. Sabin believed that the human body was like forged iron. It required beating to work it into its strongest shape, but overdoing such a thing could easily cause it to break. Sabin wanted to avoid injuries among his students whenever possible. They were in his care, and they trusted him to keep them safe. He would not betray that trust.   
  
"For sparring today," he said, "I'd like to see Tony and Relm."   
  
Tony, a short but muscular nineteen-year-old, nodded and went to stand by Sabin's left side. Relm smiled and stood by his right, facing Tony.   
  
"Alright, you two. Fight to two points, and I want to see you pull your punches. No shots below the belt - and that means _you_, Relm."   
  
Relm rolled her eyes.   
  
"Begin!"   
  
Relm went in and punched high twice, both shots blocked. Tony snaked his leg behind hers and struck her lightly in the chest with his palm. She lost her balance and fell on her butt, a look of surprise and anger on her face. Most of it was due to falling for such an obvious maneuver. But there was something else.   
  
He didn't just push her. His hand should have struck lightly and then broken contact. But in that moment when she was falling, didn't she feel fingers slide into one flap of her coarse _gi_ and brush her tank top? And hadn't it been just the lightest of caresses over her breast, and something that might have been a pinch before she fell out of his reach?   
  
No, impossible. There was no way he could have done all that in the split-second she was falling backwards.   
  
"Excellent, Tony. One point." Sabin turned to Relm, offered a hand, and helped her up. With his back to Tony, Sabin couldn't have possibly have seen Tony wink, then wiggle his lips in a mock-kissing manner.   
  
_That son of a bitch._   
  
Hatred burned on her face. She faced him, hands on guard in tight fists. Her nostrils flared.   
  
"Begin!"   
  
She came at him like before, but along with her second punch she brought up her right leg and roundhouse-kicked the boy in the ribs - hard. The jolt was enough to break his hold on her hands, and he staggered two steps back.   
  
"Very good, Rel -"   
  
Relm wasn't finished. She went forward a step, jumped straight into the air, brought her left leg up behind her and extended the right leg straight ahead. As she did so she felt the tendons in her thighs tighten, and there was a delightful pain that went across her hamstrings and met in her crotch, delightful because she knew it would magnify the pain Tony was about to feel a hundred times.   
  
She snapped a kick at the side if his face, glad to see he was turning into it. She felt his teeth make their marks on her bare foot, and was dissatisfied to not feel bones snap and crack. She wanted to break his nose, but simply hadn't enough power behind her.   
  
Both of Tony's feet left the ground and he fell hard on his back. Relm landed gracefully, her right foot extended, only the toes touching the floor.   
  
"_RELM!_"   
  
Sabin kneeled by Tony, but he was already getting up and holding his face.   
  
"That _bith_ boke my doze!" he shouted, or tried to shout.   
  
Sabin took a look at his face, lightly tracing his injury with his fingers.   
  
"No, it's not broken. Just bloody. You'll be alright. I'll get some ice."   
  
Sabin stood up.   
  
"Relm, one hundred push-ups. Now."   
  
Relm immediately got on the ground and began. She would explain later.   
  
The other two students helped Tony to his feet, and Sabin returned with a bag of ice.   
  
"Tankoo, Master Thabin," Tony said, holding the ice to his face.   
  
"You three are dismissed. Can you walk home, Tony?"   
  
"Yeth, Master Thabin."   
  
Sabin slapped Tony on the back. "Good job today. You handle pain bravely."   
  
Sabin let the three out the door into the afternoon sun, then returned to his rowdy protégé.   
  
Relm's _gi_ top lay beside her, leaving her clad in only her pants and a tight white tank top that was cutoff far above her navel. Her face was flushed red, though mostly obscured by the cascade of hair that had come loose from her bandanna. Her arms glistened with sweat and no doubt hurt considerably by this point.   
  
"How many?"   
  
"Ninety-five," she hissed, barely enough breath in her lungs.   
  
Sabin had been standing beside her. He suddenly lashed out with one foot. Had he connected full-on with her body, he surely would have broken several ribs. Instead, he hooked his foot underneath her abdomen, picking her up, rolling her over, and throwing her all in one movement of his leg.   
  
Relm gasped as she was thrown, and coughed as she stared up at him. She was now on her back, and her shirt was tight and sweaty enough for her breasts to be well defined by the curves of fabric. This she noticed with face-flushing embarrassment, but only for an instant - this was, after all, Sabin Figaro. Normally when in a position of this sort she would have expected to see the look in men's eyes of incredible studiousness, and she knew they were memorizing the curves of her body for use in their fantasies sometime later. Sabin did not sport this look, however. He glared at her with stern indifference. Had she been entirely naked, she imagined his face would not falter. Sabin was always in control of himself. It was what she loved about him.   
  
"You may be a good liar, but I assure you I'm far wiser."   
  
"I'm sorry," she sighed. "But he groped me during the match. Didn't you see it?"   
  
"In fact, I did. I was planning to discipline him afterwards, but it didn't seem right to do so today, after his nose was nearly broken. You could have snapped his neck. What would you have done if you killed him, Relm?"   
  
"I don't know. I guess I overreacted."   
  
Sabin sighed. "Tony's a troublemaker. I'll admit he deserved something like this sooner or later. But it's not your place to punish him."   
  
She cocked an eyebrow.   
  
"You're not mad at me at all, are you?"   
  
Sabin shrugged. "I am, but just a little. The push-ups were just to keep up my appearance as the domineering Master Sabin, of course. That was a terrific kick."   
  
She smiled and sat up. "And your knocking me over just a moment ago?"   
  
"I guess you're just fun to throw around, Relm."   
  
She giggled and stood before him.   
  
"I'm about to have my dinner," Sabin said. "Care to join me?"   
  
"Love to," she said.   
  
Sabin helped her up. As they walked to the entryway, he noticed her slight limp.   
  
"Are you alright?"   
  
She grimaced. "I think I pulled something on that kick."   
  
"Here, let me see."   
  
Sabin kneeled before her and ran his hands up her calf, around her knee, and to her thigh.   
  
"Yeah, I feel it. It's much too tight right here."   
  
Relm almost absent-mindedly unfastened the ties at her waist and let her loose cotton pants sink to the floor. Beneath, she wore tight black shorts. The feel of cool air on her hot skin was soothing.   
  
She sat on the floor as Sabin worked his hands over her aching muscles. His hands never went more than a few inches above her knee, which was growing increasingly aggravating.   
  
"Higher," she said.   
  
His fingers stroked and kneaded, releasing tension. The feeling was exquisite.   
  
"Higher."   
  
The tightness wore away, but as Sabin's hands came close enough to brush her shorts, an entirely different tightness took hold.   
  
She stared at him, but he made no eye contact - he was focused on his work. Only when she leaned forward did he look up at her, a look of fear on his face.   
  
She could feel his breath on her face as she leaned in and brushed his lips with her own. Smiling, she leaned back.   
  
No fear in his eyes now - only anger. Quick as a flash he backhanded her across the face. It was not until later, when she realized there was no mark and the stinging had only been in her mind, that she would notice he put no force into that blow.   
  
Sabin jumped to his feet.   
  
"Listen very carefully, Relm. I am your teacher. You are my student. That is the extent of our relationship."   
  
"I . . . I" She brushed her face lightly with her fingertips in complete disbelief.   
  
"I'm sorry, Relm. I suppose I overreact sometimes, as well. But I can't stress to you enough the danger in you making advances like that."   
  
"I'm sorry, too," she muttered. She began to dress herself in her _gi_ again.   
  
"The offer to dinner still stands, if you're interested." Sabin paused. "I'll be waiting at home. If you don't want to join me, that's understandable."   
  
Relm nodded, and was glad Sabin was willing to leave her there for some time.   
  
As soon as she heard him leave, she began to cry.   
  
  
  
**II. OPERA-STAR FLOOZY**   
  
The crumpled-up parchment was flattened out, refolded, and placed in a kitchen drawer. She would read it later, after Edgar came.   
  
Edgar would come, she knew it. He didn't leave the castle as much as he once did, and he would recognize any request for his presence as urgent.   
  
Celes scooped more sugar into her tea and stirred it. It was getting dark. She never before felt afraid at night, at least not since she was a child. She had always been in the company of her fellow soldiers, or her friends, or Locke.   
  
Locke.   
  
She missed him terribly. It had been eight days since she had last heard from him. She feared for his safety, and for her own.   
  
She hated being alone.   
  
Celes sipped her tea, and a tickling tear trickled down her cheek.   
  
"Stop it, damn you," she hissed, her voice nearly breaking. "You don't know. You don't . . ."   
  
She put the tea down on the saucer and buried her head in her hands.   
  
  
  
Three days ago she dug her Runic Blade out from the pile of wedding things in her bedroom closet. The blade had rusted from disuse. She cleaned it and sharpened it.   
  
The next day she stood in the backyard. No longer did she wear the housedresses that had been her uniform as a housewife for so many years. She wore her Imperial uniform. She had cried when, pulling on her leather pants, she could not get them over her hips without loosening the rawhide straps on the sides. True, she had only gained a few pounds since she had ceased fighting, but she knew, dammit, she knew that her legs, abdomen, and arms were all smaller, smoother, weaker than they were ten years ago. Her muscles had long since faded away, yielding to smooth skin, and perhaps a bit of fat. It was more pleasing to Locke, and wasn't that the point? Her strong, boyish hips were necessary as a general, but didn't she allow herself to gain a near-hourglass figure so that she could more easily slide into her husband's arms? Hadn't she changed for him?   
  
No, that wasn't it. She couldn't convince herself that her physical degradation was intentional - she merely ceased training and ate less, and this is what happened. And was it even degradation? Truly, she was more beautiful. Soft, like a lady should be. Right?   
  
_But I'm weaker._   
  
Her boots fit the same, as did her shirt. Her brown leather jacket was closed, and she had tied her hair up to keep it out of the way. With her arms extended, she held the blade before her. It felt much heavier today.   
  
Silently, she ran through her training exercises. Thrust, block, advance. Thrust, block, advance. She swung the blade haphazardly and hated herself. She hated that she allowed this progression. She hated how sloppy her blocking became, how slow and weak each thrust and swing was, how much her arms ached, the muscles screaming to her.   
  
She kept it up for only ten minutes before the blade slipped through her fingers and buried its tip in the dirt. She grabbed at it, chipping her fingernails, and could do no more than lean on it.   
  
_Dammit, you're scratching the blade._   
  
Her hand let go and she fell to her knees, her breathing ragged. She dry-heaved once, coughed, and swallowed saliva. Every part of her hurt.   
  
_Weak weak weak Celes Chere the Love-Starved Twit you are weak so weak . . . _   
  
She squeezed her hands into fists. Her fingernails, far too long for an Imperial general, bit into her palms. Turning her head to the sky, she screamed unintelligible obscenities, and then a roar of pure, vile anger.   
  
  
  
It still infuriated her to think about it. Celes banged her fist on the kitchen table, upsetting the teacup and causing it to roll off the table. Her reflexes were poor as well - her hand missed the cup and it smashed on the floor.   
  
Growling, Celes grabbed a washcloth and wiped the spilled tea off the floor. She picked up shards of porcelain and placed them in one hand. One sharp piece sliced her finger. She grunted and sucked the cut. The coppery taste flowed into her mouth. It had been so long since she last tasted blood.   
  
The wedding was the last true battle she had ever been in. She and Locke had talked about it, and he was amused she found the wedding so enjoyable. It was one last war before her days as a lone general were truly over. She cried for Edgar, but he had absolved her of all guilt rather quickly. And since that incident, Kefka's Fanatics had not given any of them any trouble. No doubt Cyan, Relm, and Sabin had destroyed them all.   
  
Hadn't she watched, fascinated, as Locke threw that dagger at the Gradius-wielding attacker and pierced his throat? Hadn't she smiled with grim pleasure when the man gargled blood and fell over, rolling into his death spasms?   
  
She knew she did. And she longed to fight again.   
  
  
  
**III. TERRA BRANFORD'S FLIGHT**   
  
The steel, wood, and canvas structure perched like some graceful dragon on the stone slabs that were its landing pad. Heavy ropes and chains kept it moored, but these were being methodically unfastened and moved out of the way. From inside Edgar could already hear the hiss of the gas burners heating up the large hot-air envelope that floated above the wooden cockpit. The noise was enough that most people would not notice any other sounds, but Edgar's trained ears could hear the metallic whine of the generator running up to speed, the clicking of a dozen switches and banging of access panels as his ground crew began their pre-flight check, and the gentle sigh of the canopy as the material stretched against the air supporting it.   
  
The cabin itself was small, perhaps sixty feet by twenty. It consisted of nothing more than a cockpit, a small bedding compartment, a cargo area, and an engine room not much larger than a closet. The vehicle was designed for a crew of three, but could just as easily be piloted by one.   
  
And it was fast. By Gods, it was fast. The airship had been his baby for the past four years; three of which were dedicated to its construction. Of course, he couldn't claim much more than a partial hand in its design. It had been Setzer's idea at first, a way to work him out of his depression. And yet, it became so much more.   
  
Setzer had certainly sacrificed for his assistance in the project. The _Falcon_ had been the fastest airship in existence ever since its creation, mostly because Setzer knew many things about the _Falcon_ that could have made it faster and kept them secret. He divulged those secrets to Edgar, and most made their way into the blueprints.   
  
How many nights were spent between Setzer and Edgar arguing over a particular mechanical part, jabbing at engineering texts and drawings with shouts of rage, muttered curses, clinks of glasses, emptying of bottles of wine, and resounding barks of laughter?   
  
Maria could probably tell them. She spent those days by her husband's side, and her patience was heroic. But when the inebriated king and gambler began to belch out bawdry drinking songs, no doubt overheard in some bar in Zozo, she would leave the room in disgust. She would have said such an event happened every night she and Setzer stayed at Castle Figaro past sunset, and she would be correct. She would also probably suggest this happened a thousand times over the three years they worked on the airship, but that would be an exaggeration. The two of them got drunk together no more than fifty times. It was pretty much a weekly event at the Desert Castle for a while, and Edgar's subjects decided to take it in stride. It was, after all, far more desirable to see their king drunk and jolly than drunk and despondent.   
  
Maria, her sensibilities rubbed raw by such antics, would take these times to go to the grand stairway and sing. Surely a strange act, but she had a knack for acoustical sense, and she knew right away that the layout of that particular part of the castle was perfect for her purposes. Her voice would echo off and return to her amplified, but with no reverberation. Perfect for practice. So, with the guards looking at her queerly (which didn't bother her - the show must go on, even with gawking peasants about) she would perform a run-through of her favorite Lord Avon works. When she was complete, she would return to find both engineers sleeping it off, often on the floor. Clucking her tongue motherly, she would roust them and drag them off to their respective beds.   
  
At some point it occurred to her that she really didn't have to put up with such behavior. She was a talented singer, and surely was better than this boozing, gambling, mechanically-inclined adventurer. She had thought he changed eight years ago, when he built that casino in Jidoor, inexplicably named The Trick Coin. But only a few years after running it, he gave command to one of his friends and left to continue his travels of the world. True, Setzer remained full ownership of the casino. But that was only a technicality. He had full managerial control of all its workings, but never exercised that right. He could have asked for any percentage of The Trick Coin's profits, but the amount he collected was no more than a typical card dealer's wages. "Only enough to live on," he told her. "The rest remains in the casino, funds to either expand the facility or go into the pockets of some lucky gambler."   
  
She thought he was a fool at the time. Only gradually did she understand that though he loved his casino, he never pretended to be a businessman. The right to say he owned a casino and enough money in his pocket to live on; that was all he wanted from the venture.   
  
And so Setzer hadn't really changed at all. Maria was surprised to find herself happy. This was the man she fell in love with, and though he could at any moment take the casino's coffers and become an astoundingly rich man, he did not. He loved gambling, he loved the thrill, but he didn't care for money itself.   
  
And despite his drunken ramblings and faux-gentlemanly routine, he loved her. That she knew all too well. At first she felt almost hunted by him, like his advances were the acts of some age-old sport; her love, the prize. But somehow, something changed. He never grew bored of her, as she thought he might. He stayed faithful, and it hurt her to realize she hadn't expected such a thing.   
  
Edgar, despite having his senses dulled by drink, knew all of this. He found it surprising that out of all his friends, the traveling rogue Setzer was the one to find true and lasting love. Perhaps love not as deep as Celes and Locke's, nor as strong as Edgar and Terra's. Setzer's womanizing ways, probably worse than even Edgar's, should have prevented the well-bred, delicate opera singer from ever trusting him, never mind marrying the fool. But their differences excited each other, and despite the fact they were no longer newlyweds, they tended to carry on like teenagers. Seeing their chemistry reminded Edgar of the love- and lust-filled encounters between himself and Terra, and it made his heart ache. But it was a dull ache, and almost pleasurable in its resonance.   
  
Wiping a tear from his eye, Edgar walked to the airship and boarded the _Terra Branford_.   
  
The ship was perfect. He would not have his wife's namesake any other way. Though small, it was decorated beautifully with hardwood and gold. An oval portrait of Terra was mounted on the back wall of the cockpit, directly behind the helm. Edgar kneeled before this portrait, then kissed his index and middle fingers and pressed them to the painted lips of his dearly departed wife.   
  
_My love. I know you still watch over me. You always get me home safely._   
  
The flight engineer waited respectfully behind Edgar. The king turned around to him and smiled, showing the engineer he was ready for business again.   
  
"King Edgar, the flight check is complete, and we're ready to take off on your command."   
  
"Excellent." He paused. "I've decided that I'll be flying alone, however."   
  
"Are you sure, King Edgar?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
The engineer nodded, and nervously looked at his clipboard. He didn't want his king to see the concern in his eyes. True, Edgar was more than capable with piloting the craft by himself. Nobody in Figaro was better-equipped. The pre-flight checks and maintenance would be more difficult with a single person, but certainly not impossible. And Edgar regularly flew solo. Still, there were concerns among the mechanics in Figaro that leaving their king to fly alone, who was victim to bouts of depression (though on an increasingly rare basis), was an invitation to disaster.   
  
But the flight engineer was no psychiatrist, nor did he pretend to be. Unless he had a strong reason to believe Edgar might do himself in, he would not stop him. Edgar had weaker authority in Figaro these days, but his supporters were numerous and fanatic enough that one or two would have no problem attacking him for usurping their king. And almost as important, the engineer did not want to hurt King Edgar with the suggestion he was mentally unfit.   
  
"Alright, King Edgar. I wish you a pleasant flight."   
  
Edgar shook his hand and walked him out the aft cargo bay. Waving, Edgar pressed a button on the wall and the bay door closed with a frantic whirring.   
  
Edgar walked back to the helm, flicked several switches, and turned the burner fuel valve to maximum. Within a few moments the craft was lifting into the air.   
  
The King switched on the engines, tilted the nose up, and pushed his craft into the sky. Once gaining sufficient altitude, he ruddered hard left, increased his engine speed to half power, and checked his heading. He turned the wheel slightly, waiting for the compass to stop its jittering and give a reliable heading. Once at the proper reading, Edgar set the rudder trim and pushed the engine throttles, slowly bringing them to eighty percent. With childlike glee he watched the airspeed indicator increase.   
  
He lowered the gas flow to the burners, knowing it would take a while before he found the equilibrium point at this altitude - too much and the hot air would bring him higher; too little and the air would start to cool, causing his craft to sink. It wasn't much of a concern to him - a little porpoising was normal.   
  
Smiling, he gazed at the splendor through the cabin windshield. Clouds floated off to his left, toward the mountains. As far as he could see straight ahead were dry desert sands, the air so clear he could see for miles. Below him he could see small whirlwinds of sand.   
  
He would use dead reckoning to get to the coastline, then use his instruments to pilot a course to Kohlingen. The distance was a little more than a quarter of the way around the world.   
  
It would take no more than four hours.   
  
King Edgar's airship, the _Terra Branford_, was very fast indeed.   
  
  
  
**IV. PARKER, SON OF MORGAN**   
  
It hadn't occurred to Morgan that the man that had so infuriated him, the thief that had stolen his Infinity Edge a week ago, the bastard who he put out a bounty on, dead or alive, looked very much like his son Parker.   
  
They were both nearly the same height, and both had long brown hair. Surely, their similarities were not to the extent that a close acquaintance or family member of one man could confuse him with the other. And surely Morgan would not mistake his own son for that bastard who called himself a treasure hunter.   
  
Unfortunately, it seemed his bodyguards were easily confused. When Parker came into his office at Zozo, wearing the flourishing black robe he usually did when trying to impress his father, it took Morgan less than one second to realize it wasn't his son at all.   
  
Morgan groped for the Autocrossbow beneath his desk.   
  
"You! You fucking thief!"   
  
The man before him pulled the Infinity Edge from his pocket and uttered a roar of malcontent.   
  
"That's _treasure hunter_!"   
  
Morgan wasn't able to release the Autocrossbow from its holster fast enough, and when the man raised the Infinity Edge and threw it, Morgan gave up his attempt at using the weapon and ducked under his desk. The weapon struck the back of his chair and didn't slice but _exploded_ it, sending wood, tatters of leather, and wisps of stuffing into the air. The crash as the weapon flew out his window was enough to roust the guards outside the door.   
  
Two burly men, each holding a broadsword, threw open the door and entered the office the moment the Infinity Edge returned to its owner, smashing another window in its flight back into the room.   
  
The thief caught his weapon in one hand. He turned to the guards, looked back at the desk where Morgan was cocking his Autocrossbow, and evidently decided even with this most excellent weapon, the odds were against him. Two Autocrossbow bolts struck the wall beside him as he threw himself out the window. Morgan instantly regretted that his office was on the first floor of this tower and not the tenth.   
  
Morgan ran to the window and fired three more shots, but with nothing more than the moon to guide his aim, he had little chance of making his target. He paused before reloading his weapon, and could hear the light footfalls of the man, mocking him.   
  
Morgan threw down the weapon and screamed.   
  
The guard behind him slowly advanced. "Boss?"   
  
He turned to him, eyes afire. "You. Go to everyone who owes you a favor in this town and find who that man is. I want his name, where he lives, and especially if he has any family."   
  
One guard nodded and left. Morgan turned to the other. "Ready the carriage. We're going to the mortuary. I want to see the body they fished out of the lake."   
  
Morgan barely held back a sob.   
  
"I want to see if that fucking thief killed my son."


	3. Three

**I. COVET**   
  
Relm only cried for a few minutes. Wiping her eyes, she sat crosslegged in the dojo.   
  
It was truly a beautiful place. The dojo was only a few minutes' walk from Doma Castle, and just outside the town of Doma itself. The place was built on a secluded plain, far from the main road. Sabin believed that proper study of the martial arts required solitude.   
  
The dojo was beautiful. The floor was expertly polished pinewood, which was lovingly sanded and refinished every few weeks. There were no walls, but marble columns ran the length of the foundation. Wildflowers grew all around the structure, some climbing over the stone foundation and brushing the wooden floor.   
  
On the columns were intricate carvings. Many of them were done by Tony, who has been a student of Master Sabin for two years now. He was a talented sculptor and relief artist, and Relm hated to admit to herself she was jealous. Her paintings adorned Sabin's apartment, but none were in his dojo, his place of work and worship. Truly, there was no place for them here in the dojo. But it still angered her that all the artwork in the place Sabin most truly loved was done by a person she simply couldn't stand.   
  
Some of the carvings were incantations, but most were pictures of animals used in Sabin's numerous fighting styles: snake, crane, monkey, leopard, tiger, and dragon. He had wanted to carve Sabin's portrait, but Sabin would not allow it.   
  
Relm decided she would not join Sabin for dinner. Instead, she returned to her own apartment.   
  
It was a modest place, for sure. It consisted of no more than a small kitchen, living room, two bedrooms and a bath. The second bedroom was her studio. Her latest work was on an easel at the center of the room, covered with a tarp. Her paints were on a series of shelves by the door. Had the landlord any idea how badly stained the wooden floor was underneath the drop cloths she put down, he surely would have pitched a fit.   
  
Relm poured herself a glass of water, drank it, and poured another. The sudden invasion of cold water unsettled her stomach, and she nursed the glass as she walked about her home.   
  
She walked into her studio and lifted the tarp from the half-done painting.   
  
It was a portrait of Sabin in a fighting stance. She hadn't quite gotten the background right - she wanted to portray the wildflowers of his dojo floating around him. She had sketched out his entire body, but only gotten the details to his face and chest so far.   
  
She was delaying, because she very much wanted to paint a nude but couldn't quite allow herself to do so.   
  
How could she? Sabin was her master, and he would surely take such a thing as a sign of disrespect. It didn't matter if he never knew about it - _she_ would know, and that would be enough to upset her.   
  
He wouldn't understand, just as he had yet to understand the depth of her feelings for him. He had no interest in love, lust, or romance. His heart belonged to his training, and no one else.   
  
Sighing, she walked into the bathroom and closed the door. She placed the nearly-empty glass of water on the basin and drew a bath.   
  
After running her hand under the faucet for a moment, which was very hot, she slid off her _gi_. She pulled her tank top off and shucked her shorts, scratching unabashedly at her buttocks where dried sweat itched.   
  
Glancing in the mirror, she removed her bandanna and untied her hair. The chestnut red curls cascaded to her shoulders, and she shook it out. Admiring herself, she ran a hand down her naked body.   
  
_How could Sabin possibly say no to_ this_?_   
  
The bath now full, she turned off the spigot and slid in, sucking breath at the brief pain of the hot water. Once completely in, she waited a moment before ducking her head underwater and soaking her hair.   
  
She had never drawn much detail below Sabin's waist in the painting. She simply didn't know how to draw one particular part of his anatomy. Oh, certainly she had enough models in mind that she could draw something very convincing, even flattering. But she didn't want convincing. She wanted _real_.   
  
As she wondered about such mysteries, her hands rested on her thighs. Slowly she brought them to meet each other at her crotch and began to do the thing she did most often when she was alone and longed for something sweet she could not have.   
  
She moaned.   
  
No one disturbed her activity, and she completed her deeply personal act with very little noise. When she was done, just before she picked up the bottle of shampoo to wash her hair, a thought occurred to her.   
  
She realized that at the moment of climax, the split second the fantasy became real, so very real, and she could see him on top of her, and it was not her fingers inside her but _him_, she realized it was not Sabin she was loving.   
  
She saw the face quite clearly. It was Edgar.   
  
Perplexed, exhausted, and oh-so-content, Relm washed her hair.   
  
  
  
**II. FIT FOR A KING**   
  
Edgar arrived in Kohlingen sometime past midnight. He landed a mile from the town so as not to disturb the sleeping villagers. He considered it rude to arrive at Celes's home at such an hour, and was quite tired besides. Edgar decreased the burners to a minimum - just enough to keep the canopy from collapsing down about the craft and trapping him in the cabin. He shut down the engines but kept the generator on so that the ship's ventilation would continue to work. Yawning, he collapsed into the cot behind the cockpit, fully dressed except for his cape and boots. He slept well.   
  
Edgar awoke early in the morning. He had hoped to wake up before a crowd gathered around his airship, but after he dressed and went to the windows, he saw at least a half-dozen people milling about in unfettered admiration.   
  
Edgar opened the main hatch, which lowered down to form a gangway down to the ground.   
  
The moment he set foot on the ground a well-dressed man, who was nearly bald but sported a thick brown mustache, advanced on him.   
  
"Gil Andrews, at your service, King Edgar." He held out his hand and Edgar shook it warmly.   
  
"Andrews? The Sheriff of Kohlingen?"   
  
"The very same," he replied. "I'd like to welcome you to Kohlingen on behalf of the Mayor and all his people. We don't see many airships here, and almost never do we see a dignitary of your stature, King Edgar, so excuse us for being a bit gawk-eyed"   
  
"Thank you, Sheriff Andrews. I'm happy to be here. I'd love to meet Mayor Billis and thank him for the welcome as well as yourself, but I'm afraid I have business to attend to. I'll try not to take up any of your time. I'm sure you people are as busy as I."   
  
Sheriff Andrews hooked his thumbs in his belt, evidently disagreeing with Edgar's last statement. "Well, if you need anything at all, just let me know."   
  
"Actually, I would be in your debt if you could let me borrow one of your deputies to guard my airship. This is Kohlingen, after all, so I didn't bring any of my personal guard. But I've heard there may be thieves about with intent to prey upon the fine people of Kohlingen, and I'd like if my property could be guarded while I'm here. I shall pay him fairly, and I promise to reimburse the Mayor for any interference I may cause in the goings-on of this town."   
  
Andrews waved his hand. "I wouldn't have it, King Edgar. Your kindness is payment enough. I'll have my best men here night and day, and I assure you they get paid enough already." He smiled. "And as for thieves, I haven't known too many to prey upon this town. Though I know of one who lives here."   
  
"Locke Cole, perhaps?" Edgar ventured.   
  
"Yes! That's him! You know the man?"   
  
"Extremely well. He's been a very good friend of mine. Do you remember the demise of the Empire?"   
  
Sheriff Andrews slapped his forehead. "Idiot! I forgot all about that! You two fought side by side. And his wife, Celes. And yours, may she rest in peace."   
  
"How easy such things are forgotten," Edgar mused.   
  
"I'm dreadfully sorry, King Edgar. I didn't mean to offend." He meekly studied his own shoes.   
  
"No offence taken. It's all ancient history, in any case. Now if you'd excuse me, I must be going."   
  
"Good day to you, King Edgar."   
  
The Sheriff began to shoo away onlookers from the airship as Edgar walked into town.   
  
The first thing Edgar noticed upon reaching Locke and Celes's house was the garden. The plants Celes had cared so deeply for were wilting, many already dead. Frowning, he walked to the door and knocked.   
  
"Just a moment," called a voice from inside.   
  
Edgar heard the lock click, and the door opened just a crack. Green eyes glared at him.   
  
"Edgar?"   
  
She slowly opened the door completely.   
  
Celes was wearing a short cotton nightgown with lace at the sleeves, neckline, and the hem just above her knees. Her long, golden hair was pulled back, but apparently not held with anything. Much of it came over her shoulders and hung over her chest.   
  
Edgar's first thought was of a pale goddess, entirely naked, her golden tresses teasingly obscuring her breasts. Were it not for the nightgown, Celes would have looked exactly like that.   
  
Panic flared briefly in his stomach when he realized Celes was staring at him with a look of curiosity. Did she know what he was thinking? Edgar mentally chastised himself.   
  
The moment lasted perhaps half a second, and suddenly her face broke into a smile.   
  
"You came!" she cried.   
  
Celes hugged him tight, burying her face in his chest, and as her hair brushed against Edgar's face he was assaulted by a multitude of sweet smells. Honey, jasmine, tea, and a thousand nights spent camping beneath the stars.   
  
"I left as soon as I read your letter," he said. "I'm sorry I came at such an early hour."   
  
"It's no bother. I'm just so glad you're here. Would you like some breakfast?"   
  
"I wouldn't dare trouble you so."   
  
"Nonsense, Edgar. I was about to make some anyway. Come on in."   
  
He closed the door behind him and followed her to the kitchen. She immediately turned on the stove and began rummaging through the cabinets.   
  
"Please, let me help," he said.   
  
"No, I can take care of it. Sit down and talk to me."   
  
He smiled. "About what? What was so urgent that you needed me for?"   
  
"Not now. We'll talk about that later or I'll lose my appetite." She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Tell me about Figaro. I want to know what's happened there."   
  
Edgar told her everything he could think of. There was yet another merchant strike a week ago he managed to defuse. He told her about Sabin's visit a month ago, and all the trouble they had gotten into. "I'd never seen a chocobo run faster in my life," he laughed. He did not tell her about how he felt the night he read her letter - neither the depths of sadness he was in, nor how happy, how _important_ he felt when she asked for him.   
  
Celes made scrambled eggs, toast, and tea for both of him, but her portion was barely touched. Edgar ate heartily, punctuating his words by jabbing his fork at the air. Celes listened, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. She gave him rapt attention, nodding once in a while, laughing often. It had been so long since she last talked to anyone. And to see a man sit there, enjoy her food, and beg for her attention - she felt warm again. Happy.   
  
She missed Edgar dearly.   
  
Once the meal was over, the plates washed (Edgar insisted doing so himself), and the second round of tea served, Edgar stopped talking.   
  
She nervously sipped her tea.   
  
Edgar shook his head. "I know I've been talking your ear off, and I'm sorry."   
  
"I don't mind. You're a wonderful storyteller."   
  
"But a poor conversationalist. Are you in danger, Celes? Is that what this is about?"   
  
"No, it's not me." She sighed.   
  
"Where's Locke? Is it something to do with him?"   
  
"I think so. Edgar, I don't know. He's been gone for nine days now. I haven't received a word from him since he left. This isn't like him."   
  
Edgar nodded. "If he's in trouble, I can search for him. All our friends - I can track them down. It won't take very long."   
  
"There's something else. A letter from Zozo. I haven't read it yet. Edgar, I'm scared."   
  
He put down his tea and saucer. "Where is it?"   
  
"The kitchen drawer. Second one to the right."   
  
He found the letter, unfolded it, and read it with a frown.   
  
"Oh, gods," he whispered. "Celes, I . . ." He put down the letter and kneeled before her chair. "I'm so sorry, Celes."   
  
"No," she cried. "I knew it, god damn it, I knew it I _knew it_!"   
  
She fell into his arms, her tears hot, wet, and painful on his neck. Edgar felt like he might cry as well. Locke, his best friend, was gone.   
  
Zozo was a dangerous town. Robbery was common, as were assaults. Murder was, at the very least, unsurprising. The letter, though sympathetic, was not much more than a request for Locke's wife to come to Zozo and bear the body back to Kohlingen for burial. There were apparently enough identification papers on the body to compose this letter, which were to be collected by his next of kin along with his personal effects.   
  
Edgar grimaced as he realized that the date of the letter suggested Locke would be too far gone for an open casket.   
  
It would be barbaric to have Celes claim her husband's corpse, but Edgar was capable, though not particularly willing. And if he had already been buried in a poor man's grave (and that would be very likely by this point), he would at least get his things. His bandanna would surely be there. Perhaps that would give poor Celes some comfort.   
  
"Someone has to go to Zozo," he said. "To take care of things. I'll go for you. You don't have to worry about that."   
  
"No," she said. "Please don't leave me here. Stay, at least for the night. Hold me."   
  
"I'll take care of you, Celes." She slowly let go, and Edgar gave her his handkerchief.   
  
"He always said you were his best friend," she said.   
  
"I loved him like a brother. He was a great man. He . . ." Edgar sniffed.   
  
"Tell me about him. I want to know everything."   
  
Edgar did. He told her about how they first met, how Locke remained his contact with the Returners for years. He told her stories, so many stories, about his friend. And when he was done, Celes told him about her life with Locke, beginning with how he saved her life in South Figaro, going through their adventures - even the ones where Edgar was present, but Edgar did not mention that to her - and accounting for all the nine years of their marriage.   
  
Edgar glanced up with some surprise, seeing it was already dark.   
  
"How long have we been talking?" he asked   
  
"Twelve hours, give or take."   
  
"Gods. Are you hungry?"   
  
"No. You?"   
  
"No."   
  
She stood up and stretched, noticing for the first time in several hours that she was still wearing her nightgown.   
  
"Oh, goddess. I can't believe I haven't gotten dressed all day! Ugh, I feel disgusting."   
  
"I assure you look ravishing," countered Edgar.   
  
"I don't care what I look like. And I'm exhausted. Would you care to stay the night?"   
  
"I shouldn't intrude. . ."   
  
"No, please stay. At least keep me company. I'll sleep on the couch."   
  
"No, I will."   
  
Celes smiled. "Thank you. I'm going to take a bath now, if you don't mind."   
  
"Go right ahead."   
  
Edgar watched her leave, heard the bathroom door close, and later detected her muffled sobs along with the sound of running water. He wanted to go to her and nearly put down the book he was reading, but quickly realized she was indecent, and furthermore, if she wanted his comfort she would not hide in the bathroom.   
  
She returned thirty minutes later in a light robe. Edgar was stoking the fire he had just started.   
  
"It was getting cold," he explained. She nodded and walked to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She sat beside him on the couch.   
  
"Celes? Do you think this is appropriate?"   
  
She studied the bottle in her hands. "I bought this a few months ago. It was supposed to be for Locke and I. For our tenth anniversary."   
  
"I'm not sure you should be drinking at a time like this, Celes."   
  
She cocked an eyebrow. "You're one to talk."   
  
Edgar recoiled as if slapped, and Celes desperately wished she could have taken her sardonic comment back.   
  
"I'm sorry, Edgar. Gods, what's wrong with me?"   
  
"It's alright," he said, but the hurt look on his face remained. He took the bottle from her and poured two glasses, perhaps because it meant he could avoid looking at her, perhaps because it was what his hands were used to in situations such as these.   
  
"To Locke, the best damned treasure hunter on Gaia," he intoned.   
  
"To Locke," she whispered. They clinked glasses and drank quickly.   
  
They talked about Locke for at least another hour, during which time the bottle was drained considerably.   
  
"Thank you," she whispered, leaning on him. "Thank you so much for being here for me. You're the only one I could want to comfort me."   
  
"I should say the same to you," he said. "As bad as I feel about him, I'm glad we can cry together." And Edgar did cry, though the tears were nowhere near as bitter as ones he had shed years ago. He was getting used to losing people dear to him, and the truth of that fact saddened him even more.   
  
Edgar had been staring into the fire, dry-eyed but hurting, when he felt Celes's hand on his cheek. He turned to her as she brought her lips to his.   
  
The kiss was something he should have shied away from, but he felt so tired he couldn't resist. And it felt so _right_.   
  
"Celes," he said. "Please don't do this."   
  
She gazed deep into him. "I need you, Edgar. Please."   
  
"For Locke's sake . . ."   
  
"Locke is dead," she stated firmly, and in that moment it felt real to her. "He's been dead for a week, and I've been denying it far too long. There's nothing we can do that would hurt him."   
  
"You're in grief," he pressed her. "You're not acting rationally. The wine . . ."   
  
"I know what I'm doing, Edgar. And it's not the wine. Not at all. I loved you for a long time, but I stayed faithful to Locke, because I loved him too. And now he's gone. But you're still here." She sobbed. "Please, Edgar. Don't leave me. I can't spend another night in that bed. Not alone. I need someone. I need you so badly."   
  
Her eyes were closed, pinching out tears, but she felt his hands on her head, pulling her in. His lips on hers, parting, a warm tongue in her mouth. It was there and it felt good and she felt happy again when she returned his advance with her own playful tongue.   
  
She pushed him down on the couch and she was lying on top of him, her hands busy with his clothes. His own hands did no more than hold her, trace her body with his fingers, and she knew he was uncomfortable, as if he couldn't remember what he was supposed to do.   
  
After she worked him out of his cape, breastplate, and shirt, he grabbed her wrists.   
  
"How far is this going to go?" he asked.   
  
"As far as you'll let me."   
  
"I don't know if I can. It's been five years since . . ." He trailed off.   
  
"You've been faithful to Terra?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Even after her death?"   
  
He nodded.   
  
She kissed him. "I don't care how far we go. Just be there for me." She unbelted her robe and tossed it to the floor, revealing a green nightgown with wooden buttons down the front. It was probably meant to come down to mid-thigh, but it was hard to tell since her writhing had caused it to ride up nearly to her waist, exposing the green satin panties that obscured the convergence of her legs. She took his hands and put them on her shoulders.   
  
"Rip it," she said.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Rip it."   
  
He grabbed her lapels tightly and tore, the buttons coming free and bouncing off the wall and couch. Several landed on the floor with a light tapping.   
  
Her breasts were small, but so perfectly shaped. Smiling nervously, he cupped one and stroked it with all the shyness of a teenage virgin.   
  
He let go as Celes stood up, letting her nightgown pool around her ankles. She put her hands on her hips and smiled sexily, clad in only her underwear.   
  
She yelped as Edgar jumped off the couch, scooped her up, and carried her to her bedroom.   
  
Edgar needn't have worried about his lack of experience for the past few years. To call his performance admirable would have been an injustice. Celes, if asked, would have called it "amazing," and his encore presentation an hour later "mind-blowing."   
  
Both lovers would be plenty sore in the morning, but not sore enough to avoid having a third go at it.   
  
  
  
**III. TREASURE HUNTER**   
  
Locke Cole trudged through the muddy path leading to the coast, scowling. It was raining and the robe he wore offered very little warmth. He regretted the loss of his wool shirt and denim jacket, which would have made travel in this weather at least bearable.   
  
His hand caressed the Infinity Edge in his pocket. It was a fine weapon indeed. A most excellent score for a treasure hunter. But he was beginning to wish he never found it.   
  
It was in one of the caves of the mountains of Zozo. It took nearly two days of searching. The Infinity Edge, a finely crafted boomerang-like throwing weapon, was at least twice as strong as his Wing Edge. He had planned to sell it at first, but immediately after leaving the cave he was accosted and forced into using the weapon. He was nearly dumbstruck with the destruction it caused.   
  
Later, while in his hotel room, there was yet another attack. Someone came in though the window, apparently unaware that Locke was a light sleeper. That one escaped, but not before he told Locke what he wanted to know. And with several fewer teeth, besides.   
  
Some character by the name of Morgan was vying for his treasure. Apparently he was a local crime boss who had been searching off and on for the weapon he found so easily. The first group of men had been his own lackeys, but the lone man was not. It seemed there was a price out on his head. Locke decided it would be a good idea to lay low.   
  
He was camping near a lake just outside town when he was attacked again, this time by a screaming freak with an Autocrossbow. Locke had wielded a similar weapon as a Returner for long enough to know two things. First, the Autocrossbow the man had was a Figaro-made Returner model and evidently stolen. Second, the guy hadn't the slightest clue how to operate the thing. Locke stabbed him in the heart with a dirk and that was the end of him.   
  
After packing up camp - he was not morbid enough to sleep near a corpse - a thought occurred to him. The man looked very much like himself. And Locke couldn't possibly get to Morgan while there was still a contract out to kill him. Hell, he couldn't even walk down the street by this point. But if people thought him dead and the contract was recalled . . .   
  
It was just devious enough to work. Locke switched clothes with the corpse, and amazingly managed not to vomit. He came close, though.   
  
The deed done, he tossed the body in the lake where it would hopefully float to the docks and be found. Locke hid deeper in the woods and waited for several days.   
  
Once he assumed his death was properly faked, he went about his business in his assassin's garb. He spent time in pubs, gathering information from barflys that would tell him all he wanted to hear and then some for a few GP worth of liquor. Once he decided he knew enough, he went to Morgan.   
  
If he hadn't panicked, everything would have been fine. But he was scared, he hesitated, and then he escaped. His cover was blown completely. All his effort for naught.   
  
With the benefit of hindsight, he could see all his mistakes. First and foremost was the fact he kept the Infinity Edge instead of planting it on the body. The ruse would not be convincing for very long without it, but he simply couldn't bear to give up the treasure.   
  
Second was the fact that he hadn't written to Celes in over a week now. It was impossible for him to have done so while in the caves or on the run from his assassins. But after fabricating his death, he probably could have sent a letter to Kohlingen to tell her what had happened without jeopardizing his ruse. This would be most important in case she got word of his death. Should that happen, he wouldn't want her to do something drastic.   
  
Third was the fact he left his papers in his clothes that were, of course, placed on the body. This made the notification of Celes all the more likely, since anyone who was interested could probably find out who he was and where he lived.   
  
That last point mingled with the words he heard as he ran from Morgan's office: "I want his name, where he lives, and _especially_ if he has any family."   
  
What did he plan to do? Was he going to send his men there to find and kill him?   
  
_Were they going to hurt Celes?_   
  
Though his legs were already sore merely from walking, Locke began to run.   
  
  
  
**IV. FAMILY TIES**   
  
Morgan stared indifferently into the sky. Behind him, an airship canopy ballooned upwards like some demonic tumor. He heard the muttering and cursing of his personal guards as they worked to prepare the ship for departure.   
  
Parker was dead. He was most sure of that now. His poor, silly, stupid son was in a pinewood coffin of the poorly refrigerated morgue. He would have been buried in an unmarked grave, but Morgan saw to it his son would be placed in a plot by his mother.   
  
Morgan hadn't seen his son in months now, so his disappearance for another week didn't seem surprising. Parker had been twenty-three years old. Five years ago, Morgan had thrown him out of the house for stealing a fairly incredible sum of money that was never recovered. His mother convinced Morgan to give him another chance, and Morgan eventually allowed him to visit as often as he wanted. But Parker would never stay long. As far as he knew, Parker lived a beggar's life on the streets. All the more reason for him to try and kill the man who had robbed Morgan to impress his dear old dad.   
  
Morgan was sure that's what happened. Parker was a far worse fighter than he claimed himself to be. The idea that he would walk right into a trap set by his thief was not surprising.   
  
Stupid boy.   
  
But his disapproval of his son didn't lessen his anger. Oh, goddess, it didn't. He had taken his Infinity Edge, and that was bad enough. But to take his son as well . . .   
  
Locke Cole was going to die. Oh, that was most certain. The question was how much torment he would go through first.   
  
He knew his name now. The idiot's papers were in the pockets of his son's corpse. Morgan sent his men out to intoxicate or beat half the town of Zozo into telling him everything they knew. Of course, nearly all of them never heard of the man. But there was one young card-player who said he knew who Locke Cole was. He said he used to play cards with him and some white-haired airship captain from Jidoor. It took two bottles of elixir, but Morgan found everything he needed.   
  
He had no known family, but many powerful friends. He was reputed to be an associate to the royal family of Figaro. Of course, with their impotent king on the throne, it looked unlikely his army would pose any problem. He had friends in Jidoor and Doma, and though Morgan would love to kill all of them for his thief to find, he hadn't the time. Besides, his strategy in such situations was to strike a bit closer to home.   
  
He had a wife in Kohlingen. Her name was Celes Cole. She was once Celes Chere, the Imperial general. The butcher of Maranda. Morgan had vague recollections of her, but it didn't matter. Ex-general or not, she was still a woman. He could handle her.   
  
Of course, simply because he expected her to be weak didn't mean he would plan for such a thing. He wouldn't allow himself to underestimate her - she was sure to be armed and more than likely still an excellent swordswoman.   
  
_"Swordswoman." Ha ha, the very idea . . ._   
  
He would bring two of his personal guard with him to assist. He would capture her and bring her to Zozo. Then he would hurt her in the ways woman were made to be hurt.   
  
No, he would pleasure himself first, if she were attractive. Then hurt her. Then wait for Locke to arrive. He would capture Locke, kill Celes before him, and then kill Locke.   
  
Morgan held a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle.   
  
Even better. Hurt her a little bit first, then pleasure, then more pain (for her, of course) and then kill her. Then send her body, piece by piece, to Locke's friends in hope he receives them.   
  
_Oh, what fun!_   
  
He couldn't decide. He knew he would kill Celes before Locke. After all, it was Locke he wanted to hurt most. He fucked with his family.   
  
"You fuck with my family, I'll fuck with yours," he said methodically. It felt like truth to him, like religious scripture. He liked how it sounded.   
  
Laughing full-out now, he turned around and walked to his awaiting airship.   
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chapter Four is still in the editing stages. With any luck, I should be updating this story every week or two. I'm planning on at least two more chapters after this, each chapter made of four parts that focus on one particular character. I like this odd little writing style.   
  
I hope you people enjoy the story so far. I'm certainly having fun writing it.   
  
- Scribe of Figaro


	4. Four

CHAPTER FOUR   
  
  
  
**I. A WOMAN SCORNED**   
  
The bathroom door opened, letting out a steamy fog that poured into the hallway. Relm walked out, a towel around her head, another wrapped around her body.   
  
Once in her bedroom she pulled off both towels without bothering to close the door. She glanced in the mirror and shook out her hair, then combed it for a few moments. After putting down the comb she opened her dresser drawer and pulled out a black strapless bra. She put it on and then paused for a moment, grabbed two similar bras in one hand and a handful of underwear in the other.   
  
_Why the hell not?_   
  
She tossed both piles on the bed, not bothering to count the panties. She pulled a black pair on and looked into her closet.   
  
Humming, she put on a pair of loose red pants, holding them at her knees - they were long enough to slide over her ankles, and the cuffs hurt when she stepped on them. She found a black shirt with open shoulders and put that on as well. Laughing giddily, she grabbed a handful of shirts, skirts, and pants, throwing them on the bed beside the undergarments.   
  
Back at the dresser she dug up some socks - black, white, green, polka-dotted - and put on a pair, piling the rest on her bed next to her other clothes. She put on her black combat boots and laced them up tight, blousing her pants from them.   
  
Enjoying the _stomp stomp stomp_ of her feet, she shook her now-dry hair and then pulled it back with a leather thong, then wrapped a red paisley bandanna over her head. A few curly red hairs slipped loose and tickled her forehead.   
  
Jewelry? No, she'd leave that here. Makeup? She opened her case, paused, then closed it and tossed it on the mattress.   
  
She kept a large suitcase under her bed. Opening it, she was assaulted by the scent of cedar. She indiscriminately shoveled clothes inside, leaving a pile on her bed of clothes that wouldn't quite fit.   
  
Dragging the suitcase behind her, she left her apartment and locked the door. Sabin's apartment was nearby, and she snorted in disapproval as she passed his door and smelled the rich scent of roasting meat.   
  
She walked to the train station, one corner of her suitcase digging a series of small ruts in the dirt path.   
  
She hadn't seen Edgar for nearly a month now. It was time for a surprise visit.   
  
  
  
**II. DON'T GO AWAY**   
  
Celes smelled breakfast the moment she stepped out of the shower. Wearing only her robe and a towel over her hair, she padded lightly to the kitchen, her feet leaving wet marks on the hardwood floors.   
  
The table was set for two. Orange juice and milk were already poured. Edgar's back was to her as he leaned over the stove. With one hand he was scrambling eggs with a spatula, with the other he held a pan and was flipping the pancakes.   
  
She laughed with delight. He jumped and a single pancake bounced off the rim of the pan, landing on the floor with a fleshy splat. He put the pan on the burner, frowned at the mess, looked up at her, and smiled.   
  
He took her in his arms and kissed her.   
  
"Good morning, my sweet."   
  
She brushed her hands through his hair. "Well, you're in a good mood."   
  
"I can't remember the last time I felt better."   
  
He was already dressed, which was a pity. Had he been as scantily-clad as she, she might have convinced him into a forth tryst. But she was still a bit tired, and the effort in undressing him again was a bit too much at the time. Sighing, she sat down. She had barely pulled her chair in before Edgar was pouring food onto her plate, and though she very much wanted to wait for him to be seated, she sensed him hovering over her and waiting for her approval. She took a cautious bite.   
  
It was wonderful.   
  
"This is delicious, Edgar! I didn't know you could cook!"   
  
Edgar grinned as he picked the pancake off the floor and tossed it toward the sink.   
  
"Don't tell anyone. I have enough responsibilities as it is."   
  
He filled up his own plate and sat opposite her. She couldn't stop smiling at him.   
  
After they had eaten, Edgar stifled a burp. Celes laughed again.   
  
"Don't you dare try to clean the kitchen," she said. "I'm going to take care of it."   
  
"No, don't worry about it. I know where everything goes."   
  
"Please, Edgar."   
  
"I'll wrestle you for it."   
  
She shouted as he grabbed her out of her chair and dropped her softly on the floor of the living room. She pushed him over but he quickly regained his position on top of her. He pinned her wrists and as she struggled, causing her towel to fall off and spill honey-gold hair over the carpet.   
  
He bent down for a kiss that she gave to him most willingly.   
  
"Celes," he said, a bit sadly. He stood up and helped her to her feet.   
  
"Celes," he repeated. "What do you feel?"   
  
She looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"   
  
"I mean, are you happy? Do you feel . . . guilt?"   
  
"Why? Do _you_ feel guilty? _Should_ we feel that way?"   
  
He shook his head. "I don't know what to feel. Locke's gone. You're here. I love you. That's all I know."   
  
She took his hands. "Maybe that's all you need to know."   
  
"I can't believe we did this." He let go of her, waved his hands about. "I shouldn't be doing this. Not to you. Not to him."   
  
She frowned. "I love you."   
  
Her statement disarmed him, and he suddenly found her arms around his waist and her lips upon his.   
  
They cuddled for quite some time. He eventually let her go and began to wash the dishes. She watched him for a minute, then went into the bedroom to get dressed.   
  
He wore a curious look when she returned.   
  
"Isn't that your Imperial uniform?" he asked.   
  
"Yes, it is. I got tired of wearing dresses. I've worn this twice this week. Makes me feel . . . I don't know. Free."   
  
"Locke made you wear housedresses?"   
  
"No, of course not!" Her hands absently found her hips and rested there. "He just . . . There was this family atmosphere we had here. I guess I sort of fell into a role. Wearing dresses, cooking, cleaning house . . ."   
  
"But not having children," he interrupted.   
  
"No. Not that. I know people have been talking about it, but you're the first one I know to bring it up."   
  
"I'm sorry."   
  
"It's alright. It's nothing I'm ashamed of. It's just that I don't want children."   
  
"Any reason?"   
  
"Yes. Terra."   
  
She had expected him to flinch at the mere mention of her name, and when she was certain he was ready to hear more, she continued.   
  
"It started as convenience. Locke and I were treasure hunters together for the first two years, more or less. We couldn't handle kids while traveling the world, could we? And then when Terra gave birth . . . well, I decided right there I wouldn't ever let that happen to me."   
  
The teakettle whistled. Edgar jumped at the sound, but quickly shook his head in a gesture of self-derision. He poured two cups as she talked.   
  
"It was silly of me, I know. There was no reason at all to think what happened to her would happen to me. I probably would have come to my senses in a few years. But then Terra had her second miscarriage . . ."   
  
Edgar handed her a cup and saucer that clinked and jittered. Once she took it he grabbed his shaking hand by the wrist.   
  
"Sorry," he said. "Go on."   
  
"No," she said, aghast at the pain she was causing him. "Not without you holding me."   
  
She took his hand and brought him to the couch, sitting him down and then placing her body in his lap. He held her.   
  
"Once Terra died, I knew there was no way I could ever have children. I was so scared, Edgar."   
  
Edgar had calmed himself down and spoke with neither tears nor the threat of them. "From what the doctors told me, she died because she was part esper. She simply wasn't born with the ability to have children. I think there was some medical name for it - damned if I remember."   
  
"I never believed that," she stated firmly. "I don't know why, but I knew it was something the Empire did to us. It occurred to me that having magic-users like us was a danger, and it would be a huge threat to the Empire if we escaped and gave the Returners magic-using children."   
  
"You think they sterilized you and Terra?"   
  
"Yeah, or something with the same effect. Something far worse. Maybe there was some drug or technique that allowed for a successful birth, or maybe not. Whatever their intents, they made sure that if a female magic-user slept with a man without the Empire's intervention, she would be sorely punished by her own body. If one defected to the Returners, she would take seed and lead them to think she would give them magic-using children. Then both child and mother would die in a way that would look very much like a birth complication. That way, the Returners could never gain a new generation of mages, and any attempt would lead to the death of their female magic-users."   
  
"The goose that laid the golden egg," Edgar stated.   
  
"Yes, exactly. Resistance to the Empire is punished by its own selfishness."   
  
"You think Cid had anything to do with it?"   
  
She lowered her eyes.   
  
"I think he turned a blind eye to it, which is just as bad. I can't pretend to know the evil things he never tried to stop. I don't _want_ to know."   
  
Edgar placed a hand on her thigh. She took it in her hands and squeezed.   
  
"In any case, I really don't have any way to prove this happened. Terra and I were the only female Imperial mages not killed by the Light of Judgment, as far as I know."   
  
"It seems in line with the Empire's motives," Edgar said. "And it surely isn't below its moral code."   
  
"I know," she said, sadly.   
  
"What about last night?" Edgar said. "And this morning? Will you . . . are you . . .?"   
  
"Taking birth control? Of course."   
  
"Birth control?" His tongue worked over the words like a strange toy.   
  
"Pills. They keep me from having children. Didn't Terra tell you about them?"   
  
"She never told me what she used. I always assumed it was her business."   
  
She shrugged, not particularly bothered by his naïveté. Just because his throne sat on the forefront of technology didn't mean he kept up with medical breakthroughs. And the pills she got from the Kohlingen potion shop were a fairly new medical marvel.   
  
She kissed him in an I-love-you-anyway sort of manner.   
  
He held her for a few minutes more and then stood up, careful not to drop her on the floor. She stretched out on the couch, comfortable in the warm cushion he left.   
  
"I have to go to Zozo. You know why."   
  
She nodded.   
  
"Will you be alright alone for the rest of the day?"   
  
"You'll be back tonight?" she asked, with just a hint of excitement.   
  
"I will. I might have to bring you to Figaro Castle afterward, though. I need to be there for my people."   
  
"You won't even consider leaving me here for more than a few days?"   
  
"No," he replied matter-of-factly.   
  
She smiled. "I'm glad."   
  
Ten minutes later, she stood on the front porch and waved as Edgar walked down the dirt road to where his airship lay in wait. Once he was out of sight, she noticed the poor state of her flower garden. She walked back in the house and returned a minute later with a filled watering can.   
  
She sang lightly to herself as she nursed her flowers back to health.   
  
  
  
**III. EXIT MUSIC**   
  
Hours later she lay on her couch, wiping her sweaty face with a handkerchief. Her pants and boots were smudged with dirt. On the kitchen table laid the watering can atop her worn gardening apron. A pair of heavy gloves and pruning shears were beside it.   
  
She had meant to only water her plants, but she then realized her rose bushes needed to be cut. One thing led to another, and it was noontime before she knew it.   
  
She was tired, hungry, and sweaty. Once prioritizing these needs, she decided she would first eat, then take a nap, then bathe. She wanted to be fresh and sweet for Edgar when he returned.   
  
She cooked some chicken, ate it plain, and then went to her bedroom to sleep.   
  
A knock at the door awoke her.   
  
Celes yawned, stretched, and went to the front door. A man stood there, dressed all in black. He smiled at her.   
  
"Ms. Celes Cole, I presume?" He extended his hand. She gave him hers, but maintained a look of confusion even as he took it and kissed it politely.   
  
"My name is Masters. I'm the funeral director at Zozo. I'm very sorry to make your acquaintance at this time of sadness, but I was told to meet you here and bring you your husband's personal effects. And," he paused with feigned discomfort, "his remains."   
  
She shook her head. "No, not here. Edgar left to take care of that. He should be on his way back." She stepped backwards into the house. Masters followed her with open arms and a sympathetic frown.   
  
"Perhaps a mistake had been made. I was told to bring him here for a wake to be held within a day or so. You'll have to do it soon, you see. The funeral, perhaps the day after? It's your choice, of course."   
  
She shook her head, near tears. How could he be so callous?   
  
"I'm sorry. I see my experience with the rather unsavory people of Zozo has made me somewhat caustic. I apologize for offending you." He pulled out a small satchel. "These were your husband's things."   
  
She took it and began to work at the knot. It was tied very tight.   
  
Masters walked out to the doorway and waved an arm. Two men seemed to appear from nowhere, each carrying the end of a black coffin.   
  
"Oh, goddess," she whispered.   
  
Masters had gotten behind her. "This living room will make a most excellent funeral parlor. Just a matter of moving these couches around. Can we bring in some of those flowers from outside? The rose bushes are a bit wilted, but surely that's the point, isn't it?" He spat a short bark of a laugh. "Come now, we'll put him on the coffee table."   
  
She wasn't taking this disrespect a moment longer. "You won't touch him!" she screamed, throwing the still-tied satchel to the floor.   
  
"Oh, shit!" one of the men behind her cried.   
  
She spun around on one heel, seeing the man holding the head of the coffin lose his grip. With a loud crash the end struck the floor. The latches popped. The top fell open.   
  
She screamed.   
  
It took less than a second for her to realize the coffin was empty, but it was too late - the world was already turning black.   
  
Behind her, Masters twiddled a blackjack between his fingers.   
  
"Very good," Masters said. "That was the perfect time for a distraction."   
  
"Thanks, Morgan," said one of the men. "But seriously, she just scared the hell out of me when she screamed like that."   
  
"No matter," said Morgan. He regarded the crumpled form before him with interest. Her leather jacket was undone, and one leg was bent below her in an apparently painful manner. It would have been kind to move her slightly to prevent her from tearing a tendon, but instead he leaned forward and roughly squeezed a breast.   
  
Morgan stood up and smiled.   
  
_Nice. I suppose that settles it: Pleasure for me, then pain for her. Then pleasure and pain at the same time, and finally more pain followed by death. Very good._   
  
"Get her in the coffin," he said. "She said that dickless king of Figaro is coming here soon."   
  
Morgan opened the satchel with a knife. Inside were not any papers, of course. He pulled out the medallion and chain inside and put it on. The eye engraved upon it seemed to wink at him.   
  
The guards scooped the woman up and placed her in the coffin with surprising gentleness. Morgan toured the house. It was quaint, to be kind. Though the word that kept returning to Morgan's mind was cheap.   
  
_This is that fucking thief's home. I wonder how many stolen things are here on display._   
  
Morgan, of course, had no particular interest in taking Locke's stolen trinkets. Besides, the one item he wanted back so badly was surely in Locke's hands. Furthermore, he had a brand new toy that made the loss of the Infinity Edge not quite worth it, but at least bearable.   
  
His greed resurged as he crossed into the bedroom and found a beautiful sword lying on the dresser. Its scabbard was leather and wood reinforced with bronze and decorated with gold weaves. An unbuckled leather belt was secured to it. Its hilt appeared silver; the grip was of woven leather straps ending with an unrecognizable round jewel. The guard consisted of a crosspiece that curved upward slightly. He drew the sword and studied the blade.   
  
Morgan knew at that moment the hilt was not silver, for no one would ever build a sword so perfectly and be foolish enough to use silver. It was made of something far stronger, maybe a material no one has known about for a thousand years. The blade was double-edged and pointed, about as long as his arm. It was decorated, no, _completed_, with intricate carvings - symbols of a language ages dead.   
  
The weapon was surely a woman's sword - no weapon that light would find its use in a man's hands. He wondered what metal could possibly be so weightless. It didn't matter much. He would keep the sword, perhaps as a decoration for his office. He could probably sell it for a huge amount of GP, but he didn't want to do that. He wanted to keep it near him.   
  
_I'll keep it as a reminder. A reminder that if you fuck with my family I'll fuck with yours._   
  
He would need it. He was sure his other memento, now being borne to his airship in the coffin, would be dead within a few days. Sooner, if she was lucky.   
  
Laughing, he slid the sword into its scabbard and left the house. Today was turning out to be a very good day.   
  
  
  
**IV. TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE**   
  
Locke ran to his front porch, stopped, leaned against the door, and gasped for breath. He had run the entire length of Kohlingen.   
  
The ferry ride was right on schedule. He was glad for that. And he had no trouble finding a chocobo stable. The bird he rode nearly to death; the creature gave up on him just on the outskirts of Kohlingen. He hadn't slept at all except on the ferry and for brief moments in the saddle. He made excellent time.   
  
Once gaining his breath, he unlocked and opened the door.   
  
"Celes?"   
  
She wasn't there. He checked the bedroom, the bath. He ran outside to look over the backyard. Nothing.   
  
_Where did she go?_   
  
There was no sign of struggle. The front door was locked. He checked it. No one had pried the door. He would have seen the telltale scratches of a picked lock a mile away - none were there.   
  
_Morgan won't be here for hours, if he really is coming here._   
  
Locke checked the bedroom again. All her clothes were in the closet, but her Runic Blade was not.   
  
_She was in a hurry, but she left of her own accord. Why else would she bring her sword? Who else would find it in this mess?_   
  
The stove was still warm. She hadn't been gone more than a few hours.   
  
_I'll wait for her._   
  
He took off his stolen robe and threw it out the back door, intending to burn it sometime later. The dead man's clothes disgusted him. He washed quickly and put on jeans and a wool shirt.   
  
Locke pulled a denim jacket out of his closet. It was very much like the one he donated to the Fake Locke Cole's Death Fund, but never worn. Celes bought it for him a year ago. He had been so attached to the old one he wouldn't give it up, even when she threatened to throw the worn thing away. He felt his eyes water as he put it on.   
  
_Dammit, she's fine. Stop worrying._   
  
He pulled a bandanna from his bureau and tied it on, then began to search the house more thoroughly.   
  
It didn't take him long to find a wooden button behind the couch and another one wedged between the cushions.   
  
_These are from Celes's nightgown . . ._   
  
Panicking now, he ran back into Celes's closet and found her laundry basket. Yes, there they were. A pile of buttons on a shelf and her nightgown, rolled into a ball, beside her sewing kit. He unfolded the nightgown and held it in one hand with a few buttons in his other hand.   
  
_The last time I saw her wear this was two weeks ago. It was whole then._   
  
He stood in the bedroom, hands trembling slightly.   
  
_He came into the house. Sometime last night, while she was sleeping. He snuck inside, maybe tricked her somehow. Then he tore open her nightgown and . . ._   
  
Screaming, he threw the buttons at the wall, reveling in their chaotic clattering upon the floor.   
  
It was at that moment he heard the front door open. Someone shouting his wife's name. A male voice. There was a brief pause, and Locke heard a sword being drawn from its scabbard.   
  
_Idiot! You left the door unlocked. Did he hear you?_   
  
Locke drew his dirk with his free hand, still holding the nightgown in his right. He stood beside the open bedroom door, back pressed against the wall. He heard footsteps come to the door, another pause, and the man was inside.   
  
Once the man was in the room, it took Locke Cole only a quarter of a second to jump him and put his dirk to the man's throat.   
  
"Struggle and you'll die," Locke hissed.   
  
"Hurt her and regret it," the man countered.   
  
Five seconds after seeing the man enter the room, it dawned on him. The blue cape. The gilt sword. His notable height. The voice. Yes, the voice made it clearer than anything - he didn't recognize the man when he was shouting, but he did now.   
  
With a gasp of surprise, Locke let go and stepped backwards.   
  
The man turned around, and Locke found himself staring at the infuriated face of Edgar Roni Figaro.   
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I like writing myself into corners. I honestly don't know what's going to happen next, but I hope to post the next chapter in the next few weeks. Keep in mind that with all my work and obligations and my other creative outlets, writing this story is last priority. Perhaps if I got a few positive comments I'd be persuaded to sit down and write more. Who knows?


	5. Five

  
  
CHAPTER FIVE   
  
**I. O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN**   
  
The wheel of the great airship _Falcon_ spun beneath nimble hands, sharply bringing the vessel to a new heading. One hand released the controls and brushed nervously through long white hair.   
  
He was running out of time. The _Falcon_ had kept a full head of steam for hours now, but he may already be too late.   
  
_Damn me for not making this contraption faster. The retrofitting would have been simple enough. I could have done it years ago. Why couldn't I force myself to do it?_   
  
He knew why. This ship was rebuilt for Daryl. He couldn't change it now - not without destroying her memory.   
  
_Why keep the memory of a dead girl in higher regard than the well-being of a live one?_   
  
"That's a damn good question," he stated. He started, realizing he was talking to himself, and glanced around with embarrassment.   
  
No one was there, of course. He'd been alone for a long while. Sighing, he turned his attention to the compass.   
  
It had been a hectic few days, to say the least.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
  
_Yesterday._   
  
His habitual journeys to Zozo were rare, but there was something about it that captivated him. It was seedy, violent, and dangerous, even for a fighter as skilled as he.   
  
Setzer knew for a fact that someday he would die in Zozo.   
  
Yet he continued going there. It wasn't the people he liked. It wasn't the challenge they posed - the patrons of The Trick Coin were just as skilled, though perhaps not as talented as cheating.   
  
It was the rawness of the place that appealed to him. It was the fact that in places like Zozo, gambling was in its natural form. It wasn't entertainment there. It was life and death.   
  
_More often death than life_, he thought.   
  
He knew there was something wrong at Abe's, the gambling joint he entered the previous evening. It was his common haunt there, and he could sense the atmosphere was disturbed the moment he entered the door.   
  
Regardless, he sat down at the first table he saw and let gold coin fall like rain from his fingers into the pot.   
  
"I'm in," he said.   
  
The man across from him glanced upward. He wore a grimy bandanna over his head, obscuring one eye that more than likely had been put out in some previous fight.   
  
"You don't even know what we're playing," he rasped.   
  
"I'll figure it out," Setzer returned with a wave of one hand.   
  
And so it began.   
  
The game turned out to be poker. Ten hands passed before Setzer asked his first question.   
  
"What happened here?"   
  
The man to his left was dealing. No one answered until he was done.   
  
"Morgan."   
  
Setzer nodded. Two more hands passed. He won both.   
  
"What does he want?"   
  
Nobody answered, and after a minute Setzer snapped his fingers and ordered a round of beer for the table. The three men playing him waited until the beers were set before them and paid for before answering.   
  
"He had a treasure," said the man in front of him.   
  
"It was stolen," said the man to his left.   
  
The man to the right burped and tossed a coin into the pot. "He wants it back."   
  
Setzer nodded once more. He waited at least twenty minutes before speaking again.   
  
"Who stole it?"   
  
As he asked, he pushed nearly a thousand GP into the pot. The man to his right, obviously inexperienced, raised an eyebrow. _Someone so easily surprised into emotion won't last long in this town_, thought Setzer.   
  
Still, he hoped the hand would go to him.   
  
"Fold," said Setzer, laying his full house facedown on the table.   
  
Setzer lucked out. The amateur gambler beside him won with a measly three of a kind. He noticed his face trembling as he tried to fight back a smile, then pulled his winnings toward him in two huge handfuls.   
  
"A treasure hunter," said the amateur. "He was killed by a bounty hunter, but he didn't have the treasure. Morgan's goons came in here and roughed some guys up until he found out where the guy was from. They say Morgan left Zozo right after."   
  
The man started to form the coins into stacks.   
  
"The treasure hunter," Sezter said. "What was his name?"   
  
Silence. The man to his left and the man with the bandanna stared at him with contempt.   
  
Setzer gripped the amateur's shoulder softly.   
  
"Please. I need to know."   
  
The man hesitated, then shook his head.   
  
"Locke Cole. Poor bastard. I heard he has a wife in Kohlingen."   
  
In a flash, Setzer was out of his chair. His coat rustled as he nodded to his opponents, wished them good evening, and made his way to the door.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
  
_This morning._   
  
Setzer arrived at Kohlingen in the morning after piloting the airship without sleep through the night.   
  
Locke's home was abandoned. Setzer knocked, waited, and checked around the house. All the doors were locked. As he returned to the front door, he realized he had no more time to waste. He needed to get inside. He needed to see if the house was ransacked, as he thought it might be. If it was, he would know Celes was gone, and he would start looking for her.   
  
And if the house was torn apart on the inside, and Celes was there, amidst piles of papers, broken furniture, and clouds of feathers from rent pillows, if she was there lying on her back with her hair splayed about her and her ribs crushed and her fingers broken and if the feathers and papers were stained red with blood -   
  
Setzer's legs turned to jelly. He braced himself on the side of the house, held back a wave of panic, and exhaled slowly. He quickly turned around and dug his fingers into Celes's garden. If he broke a window he could get inside. All he needed was a large enough rock . . .   
  
"Now, see here!" boomed a commanding voice before him.   
  
Setzer looked up. In his panic he hadn't seen the large man just outside the gate to Celes's house.   
  
_I haven't time for this_, thought Setzer. He stood up, hands to his sides. The man before him probably didn't notice his slight flick of the wrist, and surely couldn't see the razor-sharp playing card fall from Setzer's right sleeve into his hand.   
  
"Hey!" the man shouted. "Setzer Gabbiani!"   
  
Setzer cocked an eyebrow. The man before him had a fuzzy hat, a long mustache, and a heavy jacket with a small tinny star on one lapel. His look of disdain changed instantly to awe.   
  
"Gil Andrews, Sheriff of Kohlinghen, at your service," the man declared, extending a hand. Setzer discreetly pushed the card back into his sleeve and shook hands.   
  
"Me and the wife love your establishment," he gushed. "We go there every year, we do. What's a man like yourself doing in this little town?"   
  
Setzer grinned, though he felt no honesty behind it. "I'm looking for Celes, actually. Have you seen her lately?"   
  
"Celes Cole? Naw, I haven't seen her for a while. She's quite the popular one these days isn't she?"   
  
Setzer's smile faltered. "Why do you say that?"   
  
Andrews waved his hands defensively. "No, no, I wouldn't mean that! Pure as driven snow, she is. I just mean to say you're not the first visitor she's had this week."   
  
"Who else was here?" Setzer forced himself to look friendly.   
  
Andrews smiled a little. "None other than King Edgar of Figaro. Wonderful fellow. He came by two days ago. He has his own airship, you know. He's spent some time here in town, but he left yesterday in something of a hurry."   
  
"Was he alone?" Setzer asked in a burst of hope.   
  
"I'm not sure. I think Celes might have gone with him. I haven't seen either of them since."   
  
_Edgar, you magnificent bastard! How did you know to get her out of town?   
  
Wait, Setzer. Don't get ahead of yourself. Check the house first._   
  
"Do you think you could let me inside Celes's house for just a moment? I need to get something I let her borrow a few weeks ago, and I hate to wait for her to return."   
  
The man shifted his weight. "I don't know, Mr. Gabbiani. I can't rightly break into someone's home without a good reason."   
  
Setzer frowned and lowered his eyes. "I understand, Sheriff. I guess I'll just write a note for her and slip it under the door." He patted the man on the back.   
  
The sheriff started walking down the path to the gate. "Sorry I can't help you, Mr. Gabbiani. I'll see you again soon, I hope."   
  
"I'm sure you will," said Setzer. "It's been good talking to you."   
  
Setzer waited until the sheriff had walked far down the path, over a hill, and out of sight before taking a look at the skeleton key he had palmed.   
  
_Nice enough fellow, but an easy mark for even a mediocre pickpocket such as I._   
  
Setzer opened the front door, walked into the middle of Celes's and Locke's living room, and breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the bedroom, bathroom, closets, and study. No bodies. No blood. Nothing. Had Setzer spent another hour investigating the house, he might have seen an impression where the corner of a coffin struck the floor. He certainly would have been there long enough to meet Locke and then Edgar. But none of these things happened - Setzer left the house, locking the door behind him, and boarded his airship. He would not realize the consequences of these actions for a long time.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
  
_Now._   
  
That was four hours ago. Since then he has come to the assumption that Edgar and Celes knew Morgan was after them, had at least an inking of how dangerous a man Morgan could be, and fled to Castle Figaro.   
  
He was nearly there. Coming in low, he saw a tiny figure far below him, barely visible in the swirling desert sand.   
  
Setzer's curiosity got the better of him and he turned around for a better look.   
  
  
  
**II. THICK AS A THIEF**   
  
Edgar stared, first with anger, then complete, horrible fear.   
  
_It's Locke's ghost oh gods and goddesses and he has the nightgown Celes's nightgown and he knows HE KNOWS and he has his knife out to avenge her honor . . ._   
  
Edgar stumbled backwards and collapsed.   
  
It didn't seem longer than a split-second to Edgar. It was as if he blinked his eyes, but upon opening them he was staring at the ceiling and not the wall. Locke's face loomed upside-down above him, and Edgar realized he was lying on the bedroom floor with Locke behind him, supporting his head.   
  
Locke was staring at him with genuine concern, not the unfettered hatred moments before.   
  
"You alright?" the Locke-ghost asked. "You passed out for almost a minute there."   
  
"You're dead," Edgar whispered, not because he felt weak (though he did) but because he felt one should always whisper to a ghost.   
  
"Shit," Locke hissed, gritting his teeth. "You got word from Zozo, then? From whom?"   
  
"A letter from the Mayor of Zozo," Edgar said, a bit less restrained. His mind felt a bit clearer. "You know, you're not disputing the fact you're dead. Though for a ghost, you're looking particularly opaque."   
  
Despite himself, Locke laughed. "I assure you I'm very much alive. I ran into some trouble in Zozo that necessitated fabricating my own death. I hoped to clear the matter up within a few days and come back here before worrying anyone."   
  
Edgar stood up cautiously. "Fabricating your own death?"   
  
Locke told him all he knew, beginning with his discovery of the Infinity Edge and ending with what he heard as he ran from Morgan's office, including the suspicion that he might have killed his son.   
  
"Gods, Locke." Edgar shook his head. "I know we both have blood on our hands from our adventuring days, but I had always believed we were killing evil men for the greater good. But killing someone over a damn throwing weapon . . . Locke, that doesn't sound like a treasure hunter. It doesn't sound like _you_ at all."   
  
Locke lowered his eyes.   
  
"I was protecting property that came to my possession by the code of treasure hunting and salvage. And when I killed that younger man, it was to defend my very life."   
  
He shook his head.   
  
"I wish that I just gave him what he wanted. I wish I didn't kill him."   
  
Edgar felt a glimmer of happiness. _This is the Locke I know._   
  
"I thought you were dead, Locke."   
  
"I know."   
  
Locke's eyes widened in surprise as Edgar's tall frame stepped toward him and enveloped him in a bear hug. Locke patted him on the back.   
  
"I'm sorry, Edgar," he said. "I guess I did a fair deal of emotional damage to some of my friends. Celes didn't read that letter, did she?"   
  
"I told her. We both thought you were long gone, Locke." Edgar suddenly froze in panic.   
  
_She was pretty depressed at first, Locke, but she felt a lot better after I slept with her. Oh, and by the by, due to my awe-inspiring ineptitude, she's been kidnapped and will most likely be tortured and killed very soon._   
  
Locke broke the embrace and read Edgar's face it in a heartbeat. "What are you hiding? Is she alright?"   
  
"I think she's in grave danger. I . . . I was so surprised to see you I forgot why I came here. . . oh, damn me. . ."   
  
"Where is she? What kind of danger?"   
  
Edgar wiped his brow nervously. "I came to Kohlingen when Celes called for my help. She had a letter informing her of your death, and I volunteered to go to Zozo to identify and recover the body. Only when I arrived at the Zozo mortuary, I was attacked. I was lucky, I'll admit - I was outnumbered and taken by surprise - but I managed to drive off two men and detain a third. I interrogated him quite roughly and gathered the information that this was a trap and that it was set up by some intimidating fellow named Morgan. I became curious enough to work the town for more information and eventually heard from someone that the same Morgan was on his way to Kohlingen. I assumed it had something to do with you and rushed here to warn Celes."   
  
A glint of hope flashed in Edgar's eyes.   
  
"Is she still here?"   
  
Locke shook his head. "No, no one's been here for hours."   
  
Edgar lowered his eyes. "Then I've failed her." He dug his fingers into his scalp. "Damn it all, why did I have to waste so much time in Zozo when I could have just come back here?"   
  
"Is Morgan really that dangerous?"   
  
"The townspeople fear him. Some say he's a demon. They say he has the power to see things. Things people shouldn't be able to see. And he surrounds himself with extremely skilled fighters."   
  
"They can't defeat Celes," Locke stated. But there was an uneasy sense of inquiry in his voice.   
  
"Celes hasn't fought a battle in ten years. Nor have I. Nor have any of us. Locke, you're the only person I know who still gets into fights. And even you can't be anywhere near the level we were when we fought Kefka."   
  
Locke sighed. "You're right." As he lowered his head, he noticed Celes's green nightgown lying on the floor. He had balled it up and placed it under Edgar's head when he passed out, then forgotten about it.   
  
"The nightgown!" Locke gasped. A blush formed at the bottom of Edgar's neck and worked its way up.   
  
"Edgar, I found this wrecked in the closet. And her sword is gone. I think Morgan came by at night, maybe while she was asleep. And she had her sword, or was trying to get it, but she couldn't draw it for some reason. Then Morgan ripped off her . . . and . . . oh god, Celes. Forgive me!"   
  
And just like that, Locke was crying. He didn't notice the pain in Edgar's eyes because he was holding Celes's nightgown in his hands and burying his face in it, inhaling the scent of her perfume, of her lotions, of _her_, and when he imagined cruel hands clawing at her smooth skin it made the tears come faster and harder.   
  
Edgar licked his lips nervously. _Tell him now. We've got too many things to worry about already, but the longer this waits the worse it's going to be._   
  
"She wasn't wearing that when Morgan came."   
  
Locke looked up and wiped his eyes. "How? How do you know?"   
  
"Because . . . because she wore it for me. I was the one who damaged it."   
  
"W-why? Why did you do that?"   
  
And at that moment Edgar realized that no longer how long he lived, the next six words out of his mouth would be the most difficult words he would ever utter.   
  
"I slept with your wife, Locke."   
  
Locke's eyes focused on him, first very wide in confusion and disbelief, but he blinked once and suddenly they were hard and the anger in them was so hot the tears boiled away.   
  
"You _what_?"   
  
"I slept with Celes the night before I went to Zozo. She was in grief and she was lonely. I was . . . well, I was just _there_."   
  
Edgar tried not to wince, but that last word was a lie, and he knew it. He wasn't just there. He was a willing participant, hesitant at first purely because he knew that anything he desired so much could not be right. He wanted her for years, and even though it appalled him, even though he might lie about it, he couldn't deny it to himself.   
  
That was the true betrayal, wasn't it? Not the adultery, but the fact he had loved Celes, loved her behind Locke's back for so long. He never acted on it until now, never suggested it to anyone, and perhaps never before fully realized it, but it was his own feelings for her that made him despicable.   
  
Locke seethed.   
  
"I'm going to choose my words very carefully. First, I am glad you decided to comfort my wife in her time of need. Second, I realize, or at least hope, that this would never have happened if you thought I was alive. Third, I am extremely angered at the fact you couldn't wait more than two weeks before moving in on my wife. And fourth, I can't waste time beating the absolute shit out of you while Celes is kidnapped."   
  
Locke leveled his eyes at Edgar. The man had assumed a submissive posture.   
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.   
  
Locke waved his hand. "No, just shut up. We're not going to discuss this now. We're going to get in your damn airship, we're going to fly to Zozo, and we're going to find Celes."   
  
Locke threw down the tattered piece of clothing and walked out the door. Edgar followed, slightly dazed. After Locke closed the front door he gripped Edgar's shoulder and whispered in his ear.   
  
"This isn't over, Figaro. And if we fail and she shared her last night of pleasure with you, I swear that I will kill you."   
  
Edgar had a retort ready, but said nothing. He fell a few steps behind Locke, feeling unfit to lead him to his own airship.   
  
_Locke, whether or not she's alive, I might save you the trouble._   
  
  
  
**III. QUEEN OF THE DESERT**   
  
There were really no words for the incredible joy Relm felt as she saw the uppermost spire of Figaro Castle over the horizon.   
  
Not that she was particularly interested in seeing Edgar anymore. She would be again after a brief nap, but right now in this scorching world of heat and sand all that mattered was food, water, and fatigue. She had none of the first, a little of the second, and plenty of the third.   
  
"You had enough money for a chocobo near the coast, you stupid bitch," she muttered. "All you had to do was wait at the stable another day and you'd be all set. But _no_, you were in a hurry. Why wait for a ride when you can get a head start and _die out here_!?"   
  
She wiped her face with the edge of her cape.   
  
It had seemed like a good idea about two hours into the desert to change her clothes to more fitting desert attire. She had planned to build a tent for privacy, but by the time she got to a suitable oasis to stop and refill her waterskins, she decided any creature capable of surviving in this hell deserved a free look. Gym shorts were fine, but she was sweating through her shirt - a bikini top was much more comfortable. A long white cape protected her back and legs from the desert sun. Sandals were a bit more reasonable than her sand-collecting combat boots. A kerchief protected her hair and neck and completed the ensemble.   
  
She looked idiotic; she knew that for certain. But given the fact that she was going to reek of sweat no matter what she wore when she arrived, impressing the castle guards at the front gate was not a viable option.   
  
At this point, she couldn't decide whether she wanted food, drink, sleep, or a bath more. The sandstorms were mild, but already every inch of exposed, sweaty skin was layered in crusty sand. Her eyes burned with it; her thighs, rubbing each other like sandpaper at each step, began to sting; her nose felt caked with it, as did every crevice of her body.   
  
She hurt. She hurt all over. And even with her destination finally in sight, she felt exhaustion seep in even faster. The pounding in her head threatened to drive her mad.   
  
Only when she heard her name called did she look up and realize the pounding was not in her head at all, at least not mostly. A hundred feet above her, the _Falcon_ hovered. Setzer was leaning over the side shouting to her.   
  
She couldn't quite hear what he was saying over the drone of the engines, and eventually Setzer waved his hands in frustration and ran back to the controls. The airship slowly lowered down until it was only about fifty feet above the sands when a rope latter was thrown off the side. Setzer beckoned her aboard.   
  
Relm shrugged, slung her traveling bag over her shoulder, and climbed aboard. She put down her bag and pulled up the rope ladder before joining Setzer at the controls.   
  
"You're on your way to Figaro?" Setzer asked.   
  
"Yeah. Thanks for the ride. I saw the castle; it's just a few miles that way," she said, pointing slightly to the right of the bow.   
  
"No, the castle's straight ahead, and much farther than that. You probably saw a mirage. It's a good thing I found you - I noticed your tracks seemed to be going in circles. You might have died out there."   
  
Relm put her hands on her hips. "And who made you king of the trailblazers? So what if I got a little sidetracked for a few minutes? I was about to make camp when you arrived, and after a snooze I would've known _exactly_ where to go."   
  
Thrusting back her shoulders in a defiant posture caused her cape to spread open, and Setzer gained an eyebrow-raising glance at her attire.   
  
"Just what in the hell are you wearing?"   
  
Rather than cover herself again, Relm pushed her cape back behind her shoulders. "It's my desert uniform, alright? It's too hot here to wear anything else." Setzer leaned toward her and lightly touched her shoulder, and she elicited a brief grunt of pain.   
  
"That's not enough to protect you from the sun. I suggest you go below to rest and dress more appropriately. Something suitable for combat. You may need it."   
  
"Combat?"   
  
"I'll explain later. Lie down for an hour. I'll wake you when we arrive at Castle Figaro."   
  
Relm nodded, curious as hell but too tired to ask questions. She picked up her things and walked to the hatch but stopped before going inside.   
  
"Setzer?"   
  
"Hm?"   
  
"Thank you for helping me."   
  
"You're very welcome."   
  
Setzer smiled as he watched her disappear into the interior of his airship.   
  
_She's a good kid. Still rebellious, but sweet. Strago raised her right.   
  
I hope she's as strong as Sabin says she is.   
  
I hope I'm not about to kill us both._   
  
  
  
**IV. AWAKENING**   
  
_. . . I   
  
. . . I can't . . .   
  
. . . I can't believe I fell for that . . . _   
  
The black haze of nothingness parted like a series of veils, and all too quickly she realized she had not fainted - the painful swell on the back of her head told her the force responsible for her unconsciousness was physical, not emotional.   
  
_I don't remember - what am I supposed to do?   
  
Think. Think, Celes. What do you feel right now?_   
  
She kept her breathing as it was before. She could smell cheap tobacco, beer, and damp wood. Mildew. Something oily, too. Lamp oil? Yes, but something else. Diesel fuel.   
  
Now she felt the thrumming of engines through her feet, her thigh, her chest, and even the side of her face. She could feel the roughness of poorly sanded wood even through her clothes.   
  
Was she wearing clothes?   
  
Yes. The sensation of warmth and tightness over her body answered that. But her arms felt bare. Hadn't she been wearing a jacket before?   
  
Pain now. On her cheek she felt irritation. She was apparently pressing against the wood hard enough to scratch her face. At the same time, she suddenly realized the ache in her shoulders and the metallic tightness over her wrists. Soreness in her arms, pressure on her feet.   
  
She was standing up.   
  
No, she was hanging by her wrists with her feet touching the floor. How long had she been suspended like this? Surely her shoulders would have separated if she had been in such a condition for more than a few minutes, and she knew she wasn't in that degree of pain.   
  
Ever so slowly she opened the one eye not pressed against the rough wood that she now decided was a wall.   
  
It was dark, but not too dark to see clearly. Candlelight flickered from somewhere behind her. She was sure by this point that she was in a storage room of some kind. Now she caught a whiff of exotic perfumes and spices. It was the smell of merchant's wares, of a king's storeroom. It was the smell of gold and money and wealth stolen, lost, and found again.   
  
It was the smell of . . . _him.   
  
Oh, Locke. My love. What have I done?_   
  
She knew she was in danger. She knew she had been captured - perhaps to be ransomed, or raped, or murdered, or all three. For the briefest of moments she thought, however, that it was her own husband who deceived her. To punish her for being so quick to bed his best friend.   
  
For being so weak.   
  
_I'm sorry . . .   
  
I don't know why I did it . . .   
  
I loved you. I still love you. But I was so lonely. So scared. I knew Edgar would love me and make it right._   
  
Without thinking, she drew a sharp breath as the floor creaked behind her.   
  
"He's alive, you know. He won't be for long, but he's alive now."   
  
The voice, slimier than lichen, oily as paraffin, wafted into her ear.   
  
"Masters," she hissed.   
  
"Morgan, actually," the man said. "I go under different names when it suits me."   
  
There was no point in feigning unconsciousness. She stood up straight, giving her manacles a few inches of slack. She saw they were hooked together and went to a chain bolted to a roof beam a few feet above her. She turned her back to the wall and faced him.   
  
"General Celes Chere," he stated. He was wearing a dark robe by this point, and a medallion on a chain around his neck. She didn't recognize the symbol etched on it, but a trick of the light made the thing wink at her knowingly. The effect was disheartening enough to cause her to lose her voice for an instant.   
  
"It . . ." She swallowed saliva that burned her throat. "It's Celes Cole."   
  
"Now, you know better, General Chere," he chided. "You may have fooled your Lazarus of a husband, but that's no feat." He smiled wickedly, tracing a finger along the medallion. "No, I see into your heart, General. Locke may have thought you were his, but you never belonged to anyone but the Emperor."   
  
"That's not true," she spat. "I left the Empire of my own accord ten years ago."   
  
"You lie, Celes. You quit Kefka's command, but you never became more than an Imperial witch. You couldn't do better than the Empire. You joined Locke and his friends to mislead them, didn't you?"   
  
"No!"   
  
He walked toward her, a long object materializing from his cloak. It was the Runic Blade.   
  
"My sword . . ."   
  
"If I lie," he sneered, "If you're no longer an Imperial, then why do you wear the uniform of a General to this very day?" He jabbed her in the stomach with the hilt of her sword. "If you hate the Empire as all good people did, why do your hands continue to wield its power?"   
  
"I . . ."   
  
Fast as lightning, the sword was unsheathed, the blade pressed against her exposed neck.   
  
"If you're anything more than a Magitek-laden whore, then why did you murder my parents?"   
  
She felt her eyes well up with tears. _He can't be lying. I've killed so many people. But how does he know everything? How can he see into me like this?_   
  
Morgan lowered the sword and sheathed it.   
  
"I'm a just man. I believe in the value of forgiveness. But for forgiveness, there must be confession, mustn't there be?"   
  
"I . . . suppose," she whispered. Her eyes were blurry. She squinted and felt the tears wash down her cheeks. She couldn't even look at him; she stared at the floor instead.   
  
"You burned the town of Maranda."   
  
"Yes."   
  
"You led assaults that killed hundreds, murdered at least a dozen by your own hand."   
  
"I did."   
  
"You killed men, women, and children. Burned them to death."   
  
"I'm sorry . . ."   
  
"You had the Returners hunted down and murdered in cold blood. These weren't enemy soldiers - they were family men who were only trying to defend their way of life. You wiped them out without remorse."   
  
"I killed them. . ."   
  
"Tell me, General, how many of Locke's friends would you have killed if it wasn't for your act of treason?"   
  
"I don't know."   
  
"Your arrest, now that was something interesting, wasn't it? As far as I've heard, Kefka ordered you detained because you were out of control, weren't you?"   
  
"I don't remember"   
  
"Not before you wiped out almost every Returner in South Figaro, of course. Tell me, General, did you ever apologize to Edgar for decimating his kingdom?"   
  
Her lower lip quivered. She hadn't.   
  
"Not even when you seduced him?"   
  
"What!? How do you know -?"   
  
"I know more about you than you do, General. I know how embarrassed you are by your own womanhood. I know how poor a warrior you have become. I know you can barely swing your own sword without breaking a sweat and chipping a nail.   
  
"Most of all, Celes. I know just how weak you are."   
  
She reeled in shock. Her face contorted, her eyes burned, and - gods forgive her - she trembled before him.   
  
"That's right, General. Cry, you silly little bitch."   
  
"Fuck you," she choked out.   
  
"Oh, there's plenty of time for that later. But might I ask what angers you more, General? The fact I kidnapped you, or the fact that I know you so well? Tell me if I've said a single word that wasn't the honest truth."   
  
She shook her head.   
  
"I thought so. Now turn around, my dear."   
  
She looked up again, seeing he had produced a short rawhide whip from the folds of his robe.   
  
"No," she seethed.   
  
"Oh, yes. Forgiveness does not preclude punishment, as you should well know."   
  
"How dare you."   
  
"How dare I indeed. Maybe this isn't my place, but someone needs to do this. It's the only way to save you, Celes."   
  
He unwound the whip and absently cracked it. Seeing she had no choice, Celes turned around and clenched her teeth.   
  
"Now, that's a good girl."   
  
With a sweeping motion, Morgan spun the whip in a circle, pulled it behind him, and struck her in the middle of the back, tearing through shirt and skin and leaving a crimson trail behind.   
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For four months I swore off most of my favorite websites, including Fanfiction.net, to facilitate the incredible amount of studying and writing I needed to complete for my numerous classes during last semester. I came back to find the site completely revamped, my Favorite Authors and Stories gone (I've tried to reconstitute them by going through every page of the Final Fantasy category and putting in the stories and authors I like, but I'm sure to have missed some), and most of my favorite stories ("Dark Empress" and "The Descent" come to mind) have not been updated.   
  
Very disheartening. And yet, I am happy to see a few people are (once in a while) giving me reviews.   
  
Notes to my fellow writers:   
  
DK - write another chapter, gosh dang it!   
  
Midnite Angel Aeris - sorry about the Pearl Harbor rant. I guess I tend to get frustrated when I'm told an idea I thought was original was actually used by someone else. I really don't mean to take my writing here too seriously. It's just fanfiction, for Yevon's sake.   
  
Bard of Today - thanks for the intelligent review. I thought I was the only one who read fanfics more than a few months old.   
  
That's all. I don't know how much longer this story will be, but I feel I'm past the halfway point. I'm working on chapter six already, so hopefully I'll be posting them way, way more often than I have been so far.   
  
I hope you are all still enjoying my story.   
  
- Scribe of Figaro   
  



	6. Six

CHAPTER SIX   
  
  
  
**I. CONFESSION**   
  
Refreshed, recently showered, and wearing her gi, Relm lay spread-eagled on Setzer's bed. She slept for a long time, it seemed, and upon waking she continued to lie there.   
  
She first thought about her travels with her friends. The adventuring days. Things seemed simpler at that time. She didn't have to worry about love then. Oh, she flirted with Edgar a lot, but she was never quite serious about it. She didn't have to worry about travel, either. She had crossed the Figaro Desert many times on foot, but it had been so long she had forgotten. She had forgotten how Shadow tore a length of scarf from his clothes and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, protecting her from desert sands. She forgot how Locke told them to only cross the desert at nightfall. She forgot that one does not carry a suitcase and a half-dozen changes of clothes while on a journey where hours of walking may be required, but instead a bag that can be strapped around the back and filled with mostly food and water - a mistake she rectified in a store in South Figaro.   
  
She had forgotten a lot since she was a child.   
  
She couldn't paint anymore. Not as she used to. Not with magic. She had been perhaps eight or nine years old when she first found that her pictures of animals seemed to spring to life before her. Quite a difficult thing for a child to experience. Strago hadn't believed her at first, but when she drew him a leafer that jumped from the page, hopped about the room, and quietly dissolved once her magical energy was spent, her claims could not be denied.   
  
She learned to control her skill better. Strago helped some, but she learned the most through trial and error. Eventually she could quickly sketch monsters as they approached her and scare them off with her own magically animated drawing. After that, she learned how to get her drawings to attack their real-life counterparts. Near the end of her adventures with her friends, she found she could control the enemies themselves. She had many more magic spells learned through the use of Magicite, just as her friends did. But her sketching was the one she was most proud of. This was a craft, an art, a skill that no one else in the world could master.   
  
But that was gone. All gone. Terra felt it worst, but every last one of them felt the terrible illness of magic dying in their bodies during the final battle for the world.   
  
Their ability to use Magicite-induced spells went almost immediately after Kefka was destroyed. Terra's esper skills were lost soon afterward. Slowest to dissipate was the magic spells of the Thamasians, the humans who possessed magic all their lives. Days after their victory, Relm could still sketch monsters, though as time went by her magically-drawn creatures became weaker and weaker. Two months after the fall of Kefka, she could no longer call herself a mage - those powers were gone entirely.   
  
With her only real fighting skill gone, she knew she had to compensate. Her smart mouth and flirtatious nature made self-defense a requirement, and it wasn't long after the fall of Kefka that she decided to augment her crude street-fighting skills with Sabin's martial arts training.   
  
And hell, maybe she did have a crush on him at the time. He was handsome, fairly intelligent, and carried a sense of honor with him. She admired that.   
  
But so did Edgar. It seemed her entire life she held a crush against one or the other, even while doing her best to tease the younger boys, the ones she knew around town. The ones she could control with sex and promises.   
  
She was very promiscuous then, in her teenage years. But those days were over. Even though she never found anything wrong with her acts, she grew tired. It was all far too easy. She got some nice things out of it, and that was good. But she needed to focus on her training and her painting. No time for boys anymore.   
  
At least, that's what she told herself. She wasn't really tired of the flirting, the teasing, and the things that came after that. Not entirely. No, it was something else.   
  
_Emptiness._   
  
Her relationships were empty. Not a single one had any semblance of emotional attachment. At least, not on her side. She knew her actions were a bit cruel. She understood that she was hurting those boys. She just never realized how much she was hurting herself.   
  
_My heart aches.   
  
It's been so long since I've loved. Maybe I never had. I wish I could have someone. A man I could love, and he could love me back. That would be so nice._   
  
Still staring at the ceiling, her hand drifted to her face. Fingertips touched her cheek, then brushed over her lips. Lips that had given away countless kisses without thought, without regret.   
  
That thought led to memories of far less innocent acts. Her other hand brushed her abdomen.   
  
_How many men? How many, Relm? Probably less than a dozen, surely no more than a score. You teased more than you bedded. But you slept with them for trinkets. For money, sometimes, when things got tough. No better than a whore, Relm._   
  
A choking sigh escaped her lips. She would not cry.   
  
_But there was Celes, back then? Surely she was the same! She used her feminine charms, and maybe she went as far as I did. Yes, maybe. And she succeeded. She found Locke, and she seems so happy now._   
  
Relm had been insanely envious of Celes for quite some time.   
  
_But that was different. She was never as bad as me. Never. And when she got together with Locke, it was because of romance, not desperation.   
  
Besides, no one wants you anyway. You're damaged goods. Zozo street-trash.   
  
Worthless.   
  
And here you are looking for another one. Sabin wouldn't have you, so now you're going for his twin brother. You haven't changed a bit._   
  
"No," she whispered to herself. "No, this is different. I mean it this time."   
  
She wasn't sure, though. Sadly, she closed her eyes and rested.   
  
  
  
**II. ENMITY**   
  
_I still love her._   
  
Locke sat crosslegged on the main deck of the _Terra Branford_, before the main viewing windows, ahead and just to the right of where Edgar was steering. His hands cradled his chin as he thought about his wife.   
  
_I'm scared for her. I'm scared that she can't fight for herself anymore. When I first met her, she was more than a match for me. Now . . . now, I don't know anymore. And if Morgan is as bad as Edgar says, I can't say for sure I can save her.   
  
Maybe I'm being too hard on Edgar. After all, I was the one responsible for all this. I was the one who made them think I was dead. They're friends; I should have expected Edgar to come and console her. And hell, how should I know how Celes was going to grieve?_   
  
Locke grimaced.   
  
_No, I won't believe it. They couldn't wait one week - one goddamned week! - before jumping into bed together. That's not the sort of thing friends do. Had they waited a year, maybe even a month - well, that would be different. I could understand that. But a week! Gods! That's not normal. People don't do things like that._   
  
He folded his hands together and found himself biting his own thumbs in an attempt to keep from shouting out loud.   
  
_People don't do things like that unless it's something they wanted for a long time. Something planned. How do I know she hadn't been having an affair for years? Maybe they were just betting on me to check out one of these days. I spend days at a time out of Kohlingen. She's alone in the house, she probably gets lonely. In steps Edgar, regal cape and all, and cuckolds me. In my own bed, damn it all.   
  
I won't let it stand. Not like this. Celes, I can forgive her. I still love her. If she asks for it, I will freely give forgiveness. That is certain.   
  
Edgar, on the other hand. . ._   
  
Locke frowned.   
  
_He shall pay. I'm not sure how, or when. But when the time is right, I shall avenge Celes's honor._   
  
  
  
**III. CONTRITION**   
  
_I still love her._   
  
Edgar stood at the helm, still aiming for Zozo but not really seeing much. He was lost in his thoughts, feeling the wheel only superficially, and perhaps more strongly when wind gusts pushed the rudders about.   
  
_I've tried, but I can't quite make myself regret it. It was one of the best nights I've ever had. Never had I felt so free. At least, not since Terra . . . _   
  
Wistfully, he looked behind him at the woman's portrait, then turned back to the window.   
  
_I wonder what she would think of this. I still miss her, but surely she'd expect me to move on by now. Five years is a long time.   
  
Hell, what am I thinking? She'd take Locke's side, for sure. She loved him too._   
  
He glanced at Locke. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since they left his house some hours ago. He merely sat there, meditatively, staring out one of the side windows.   
  
_I wonder what he's thinking about? I can hazard a guess.   
  
Damn it, Edgar, why must you be so impulsive? A moment of indiscretion and you've absolutely decimated your best friend, perhaps utterly destroying his marriage in the process. And for what? For a night of pleasure? For the brief illusion of a deep and meaningful relationship? For the inconceivable fantasy of finally bedding the fierce and beautiful ex-Imperial General? _   
  
A brief gust of wind pushed the Terra Branford off course. Edgar adjusted the wheel to compensate.   
  
_I thought about her off and on over the years. I imagined touching her, tasting her. I thought those daydreams were harmless, and I allowed them to manifest as terrible, disgusting, adulterous desire. Desire that wasn't even realized until that critical moment when she offered herself to me. Had I any decency, any honor whatsoever, I would have stopped it. I've been called a womanizer before, but Locke's wife . . . Goddess, I never thought I was that bad.   
  
I wish I could pin it all on drunkenness, or total lack of judgment. But I still love her. I love her and it doesn't matter anymore. I refuse to hurt Locke again, and I will not contribute any further to the destruction of Celes's reputation._   
  
Edgar's chest tightened with the dawning realization that, tarnished reputation or otherwise, Celes may already be dead.   
  
  
  
**IV. HOPE**   
  
_I still love him._   
  
During her ordeal, Celes continually came to thoughts of Locke. Edgar had all but left her mind already. She could only concentrate on her husband, and what she was going to do if she got freed. She'd beg for forgiveness, of course. He might punish her, and that would be all right. If Locke tied her up like a dog to keep her from cheating on him, she would still love him . . .   
  
Celes shook her head, bringing up a swell of a headache.   
  
_Pull it together, Celes. That's crazy. Morgan's messing with your mind. _   
  
Breathing deliberately, she began to take stock of her situation.   
  
Morgan had worked her over for nearly an hour, and his attentions were well-focused. The back of her shirt had been torn to shreds by the onslaught, causing the front to fall forward and render her naked above her abdomen. Her waist-length hair had been ripped away by the whip's sharp strokes, and she could see a small pool of golden tresses at her feet. Her back felt tight and bloody, and the scabs had formed around the tatters of her hair. Fresh wounds opened each time she turned her head.   
  
_I'm not accustomed to this level of pain._   
  
Hope was with her, though. She had a plan. She had waited a while after Morgan left, wanting to be fairly certain she could work uninterrupted. She also wanted to wait until her back had stopped bleeding, knowing that what she needed to do would be frustrating and pain would hamper her progress. Now that the injuries had gone down to a dull sting, she felt certain she was ready.   
  
She gripped the chains just above her manacles and lifted her feet, pressing them against the wall before her. Slowly, she walked her way up the wall. She released the chain with her right hand, supporting herself now only with the left. She clutched at her right boot, straining hard with her fingers. She couldn't reach.   
  
Hissing through clenched teeth, she let herself down on the ground. After taking a preparatory breath, she kicked high with her right leg, managing to raise her foot almost to her head.   
  
_Not good enough, Celes. You need to get higher. Come on, now._   
  
She tried several more times, the tendons in her legs straining against this uncommon abuse. Finally, she managed to bring her leg high enough to touch her hands.   
  
Quickly, she rubbed her right heel kicked against her left leg, working the boot loose. One more kick and the boot was in her hands.   
  
_Alright, Celes, don't get too excited. You don't want to drop this._   
  
Carefully, she picked at the seam between the immaculate white leather and the cloth lining. A nail broke as she picked one piece of thread loose. She bit her tongue but didn't slow down.   
  
Finally she had them - a two-inch long, flat, hooked piece of steel, and a slightly shorter, sharp, pointed piece.   
  
Her lock pick kit.   
  
She had sewn the kit into her boot many years ago, back when she had expected recapture by the Empire and had numerous escape plans ready. She had feared their mission would fail, that the Empire would crush her friends and capture her for a more public execution. For a time, she had feared the Returners would incarcerate and interrogate her. And there were even a few days, brief though they might have been, that she expected Locke to bring her back to Vector for a bounty.   
  
_For so long I've treated him poorly. What good does he see in me?_   
  
She started as she heard the sound of someone unlocking the door to the storeroom.   
  
_Celes, you idiot! Why weren't you listening for footsteps?_   
  
This was not a good position to be seen in. On instinct, she turned her head up and dropped the lock picks into her mouth. One piece bounced off her lips and landed soundlessly on the rough wooden floor. The other fell on her tongue. The sour taste of sweat sickened her, quickly overcome by the acrid taste of metal. She worked the piece under her tongue.   
  
Morgan entered, reading a look of shock and guilt off Celes's face that wasn't entirely faked.   
  
"My, my. What have we here?" he chuckled, locking the door behind him. A small knife somehow made its way from his sleeve to his hand, and he held it defensively as he advanced on her.   
  
She said nothing, slinking back only slightly when he ripped the boot out of her hand. He stepped back a bit and examined it.   
  
"Clever, clever. I see you are resourceful, General Chere." He fingered the ripped seam. "What have you? A knife? A file?" Finished with his examination of the boot, he tossed it to the other side of the room.   
  
He stepped toward her, pressing the knife to her neck.   
  
"Show me your hands, General."   
  
She unclenched her fists, and he was soon satisfied she concealed nothing there.   
  
He glanced downward, admiring her bare chest for only a second, and saw the lock pick on the floor.   
  
"Ah, I see." Keeping the knife at her neck - had he not done so, she surely would have kicked him - he picked up the metal piece and turned it over in his fingers.   
  
"You're very sneaky, General. I made a mistake by allowing you the dignity of wearing clothes, and you immediately took advantage of that. It's a mistake I shall rectify presently."   
  
Before she could so much as gasp, he had already pulled the remainder of her clothes down to her ankles. She nearly kicked him when he leaned down to pry loose her other boot, but held fast - if she hurt him, he might decide to start striking her about the face, and she could easily choke on the pick. She struggled slightly, as total complacency would tell him she was hiding something, but that was all.   
  
He stepped back with the pile of clothes in his hands, then with his knife he began to cut every article into pieces. Even her socks were torn to shreds. Nodding with satisfaction, he tossed the rent garments behind him, strewing them across the room.   
  
She was so shocked by this behavior - by the idea that stripping her wasn't enough, he needed to destroy everything that was hers - that she didn't realize he was walking toward her again until he grabbed her shoulder and threw her face first into the wall.   
  
His hands worked their way through her hair. She grimaced as he searched for pins or any other items she might conceal. She had none of those, but he tugged painfully at her scalp regardless. Were that not enough, he tore out every ribbon she wore, painfully ripping out clumps of hair with them.   
  
Apparently certain she hid nothing in her hair, his fingers reached around her, meeting at her stomach and sliding downward.   
  
She tried to push away, but he had his entire weight against her back.   
  
She nearly gagged when she felt him touch her, and felt tears come when he had removed himself. He wiped his fingers in her hair and she heard him walk away.   
  
"You will stay like this for the rest of your life, Celes. When I am done with you, I will give you to my friends. When they are done with you, I'll have you tied up, just like this, on the outskirts of Zozo. When every drunken gambler and criminal in the town has had his way with you, I will bring you to the Serpent Trench, cover you in honey, and throw you at the most ferocious group of lizards I can find. Whatever pieces of you that are left will be placed in a barrel and sent to your husband."   
  
He stared at her naked backside for a contemplative moment, then opened the door. Before locking her inside, he stated very clearly:   
  
"And I am almost done with you, Celes."   
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm currently in the middle of writing Chapter Eight, which is good - it gives me time to revise Chapter Seven a few more times before I upload it. I feel that Chapter Five was a bit rushed, which is probably obvious in the confrontation of Edgar and Locke. I was trying to illustrate Locke's suppressed rage, but it seems a fight between the two would've been more fulfilling. Oh well. . .   
  
I wish you people would give me more reviews. I like receiving both praise and critiques, and the more I see, the more encouraged I am to hurry up and get the next chapter ready.   
  
Finally, if you want, you can send Email to my address at **scribeoffigaro@hotmail.com** and expect a response from me within a few days. I'm not sure if anyone here cares enough to send me Email, but I figure I might as well give you people a chance.   
  
- Scribe of Figaro   
  



	7. Seven

  
  
CHAPTER SEVEN  
  
**I. THE VICTIM**  
  
Celes silently counted the seconds the moment she heard Morgan leave. After four minutes, she could wait no longer. She pushed the lock pick out of her mouth with her tongue, held it with her teeth, and stretched up high enough to get it onto her right hand. She rubbed it for a bit to wipe off the saliva, then got to work.  
  
_This was inevitable. At least I have a few things to feel lucky about. First, I'm no more injured than I was an hour ago. Second, he seems to enjoy the threat of violence more than carrying it out.  
  
I can't wait to see the look on his face when I kill him.  
  
_ She smiled slightly, contemplating her escape route while at the same time listening very intently to whatever might be behind the door. She would not make the same mistake twice.  
  
She probably should have felt vulnerable. She probably should have felt violated. But she felt neither. She felt in control.  
  
_He won't expect this. I have the upper hand now.  
  
_ Her work with the manacle was slow. She was never quite as talented as Locke was, though he trained her off and on. She had assumed having a means to pick locks was more important than the skill required, which might not have been such a good strategy. Also retarding her progress was the fact she was missing half of her equipment and could only use one hand at a time.  
  
_My dignity does not lie in my clothing. He cannot make me ashamed. He has not made it any harder for me to kill him.   
  
_ With a metallic click, the manacle securing her left wrist popped open. She immediately got to work on the right one.  
  
_And his assault on me? All he has done was to arouse my anger.  
  
_ Anger. Rage. Yes, she felt it. But it was not like some passionate fire in her, wild and uncontrollable. It was a white-hot blowtorch, focused and deadly.  
  
_No . . . it's not that at all. It's organized, cool, crystalline.  
  
My fury is that of pure, cold, unforgiving ice. It always has been.  
  
_ The other manacle released.  
  
She stood on the floor, relaxed, rubbing her wrists. They were red and a bit swollen, but she had full movement in her hands.  
  
Good. She would need that.  
  
She scanned the room. There were numerous boxes around, but she hadn't time to pry open any. The few chests lying about the room seemed promising, though.  
  
She glanced at her clothes. The soles were cut out of her leather boots, making them useless. Her pants and shirt were cut into numerous pieces. She couldn't find her socks. Morgan had even taken the time to carve holes in her underwear.  
  
Two of the chests contained fortunes of GP, which she took no interest in. Fishing through another, she retrieved a Silk Robe. She put it on, tying it tight around her waist, and searched the rest of the room.  
  
She nearly laughed out loud when she opened one chest and found it filled with a half-dozen Economizers.  
  
_Ten years ago, this would have been a steal at a billion GP. Without magic, they're utterly worthless!  
  
_ One of the chests held five potions. She drank two and put the others in a pocket of the robe.  
  
_I'll probably need them.  
  
_ The last chest was locked tight. She kicked it a few times with her bare heel, no longer caring who she alerted. The clasp snapped open and revealed a Break Blade.  
  
She held the weapon in her arms, pleased with its weight and balance.  
  
As she expected, the banging had already rousted the guards. One of the men who had been carrying the coffin into her home in Kohlingen burst through the door. He shouted, immediately drawing his own weapon.  
  
Celes, still barefoot, ran to engage him. He blocked her first thrust, then swung at her. Her block was sloppy and the blade of his sword caught her robe, tearing a hole in the right shoulder. She gritted her teeth and stepped back, ducked down to miss a high swing that would have otherwise decapitated her, and drove her sword straight toward the man's chest.  
  
He was fast - he blocked the blade, nearly knocking the weapon out of her hands. He swung low, giving her barely enough time to lean back. The tip of the sword swung in an arc only an inch from her stomach.  
  
As he was about to attack again, a resounding explosion shook the room. There was the sound of impact, of twisted metal, and the sharp staccato bursts of sparks. The man hesitated for only an instant, but that was all Celes needed. She thrust her blade deep into his heart.  
  
He gurgled blood, holding his free hand over the ragged hole in his chest, and collapsed against the wall beside the door.  
  
Celes spat at the corpse and left the room, becoming ever more curious as to just where she might be.  
  
  
  
**II. THE INVESTIGATOR **  
  
Relm heard a banging on the door, arousing her from a light nap.  
  
"I need to talk to you. Be up top in five minutes," Setzer ordered.  
  
"Alright," she called back. "What's so important?"  
  
No answer. Setzer had already left.  
  
Relm got up, stretched, and smoothed out her clothes. She looked in the mirror, ran a hand through her hair, and retied her bandanna over her head.  
  
_Hell, I'm ready now. No use waiting.  
  
_ She met Setzer beside the helm, who immediately handed her a package wrapped in paper.  
  
"Here, eat. We're going into combat very soon."  
  
She unwrapped it, finding it to be a sandwich filled with some meat she didn't recognize. She shrugged her shoulders and took a bite.  
  
"Why combat?" she asked, her mouth full. "And why aren't we at Figaro yet? It's been a long time."  
  
Setzer sighed. "I was hoping feeding you would keep you from interrupting me. I have quite a bit to tell you."  
  
He straightened his jacket.  
  
"The reason we're not at Figaro is because we just left there a short time ago. You've been below decks for a few hours now. I guess you were asleep when I touched down at the castle. I stayed there long enough to find that neither Edgar nor Celes was there, then turned around."  
  
"Why would Celes be there?"  
  
"It's a long story. I'm not sure what parts are correct myself. But it all comes down to one man. An evil, terrible man. His name is Morgan, and he resides in Zozo. He's very powerful, and very mysterious. I've never known anyone who came across him before. Usually, he deals with the scum of Zozo and doesn't do harm, at least not to anyone I'd call innocent."  
  
Setzer shook his head.  
  
"Hell, I'm just rationalizing. He's dangerous, and I should have done something about him long ago. I guess I was a bit too quick in giving up this 'saving the world' thing we had going when you were young. The fact is, I found from sources in Zozo that this Morgan killed Locke and is now after Celes."  
  
Relm nearly gagged on her food.  
  
"Locke! He's dead?"  
  
"I'm afraid it seems so. He treasure-hunted from the wrong man. Somehow, he infuriated Morgan enough to go after his wife. I've heard that this isn't the first time he's employed the tactic."  
  
"Locke," Relm whispered. "But - but if that's true, then we need to go to Kohlingen, pronto!"  
  
"That's where I came from. There's no one there. Edgar went to Celes's house and left, and I made the rash assumption he came to get Celes out of there before Morgan arrived. But the more I think of that, the more ridiculous it seems. I don't see how Edgar could know as much about Morgan as I do."  
  
Relm had already finished her food and crumpled the wrapper in her hands. "If that were true, then he'd bring her to Figaro Castle. It's the safest place, isn't it?"  
  
"One would think so. But since neither of them was at the Desert Castle, or had been there for a while, I'm inclined to believe that Morgan captured both of them."  
  
Relm nodded. "Alright, then let's get them. We should go to Doma first. Sabin and Cyan are sure to help."  
  
"Sorry, Relm, but we can't. There's no time. We need to reach Morgan's airship before he gets to Zozo. Once they're on the ground, he's sure to get to work on her immediately, and I don't even want to think about what that entails."  
  
She made a brief expression of revulsion.  
  
"And Edgar?" she asked, hopefully.  
  
"Given Morgan's taste, I find it very unlikely that he would keep Edgar alive for very long."  
  
"You - you think Edgar's dead too?"  
  
"I don't know what to think," Setzer sighed. "I still want to believe I'm overacting to a set of extreme coincidences, but . . . I don't know."  
  
Relm grit her teeth.  
  
"Let's get the bastard," she hissed.  
  
  
  
**III. THE PENANCE  
  
** Locke noticed with surprise a tiny black dot off on the horizon. It was getting larger.  
  
He turned to Edgar, who seemed to be staring with interest in the very same direction. Locke furrowed his eyebrows. He was perfectly happy to continue the silence between himself and his ex-friend for eternity, but there was something childish in doing so. Once Celes was safe, and Edgar's help was no longer necessary, he would get what he deserved But until then, Locke would at least feign civility.   
  
"Edgar?" he asked. "Is that . . ."  
  
"I'm not sure. Only one way to find out."  
  
Edgar pushed forward a few levers, and Locke felt the sensation of acceleration as well as heard the whine of the engines increase an octave. They advanced fast on the ship before them, pulling alongside within a matter of minutes.  
  
"Okay, Locke, I'm going to pass him and come around. We ought to get pretty good look at him. Be ready."  
  
The _Terra Brandford_ circled around to a position far in front of the other airship, turned into its path, and headed straight for it. With both vehicles moving at such high speed, the distance closed very quickly. Edgar wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The ship's wheel was slick with sweat.  
  
They had closed to about two hundred yards when Locke began to speak again.  
  
"I can see into the cockpit," he shouted. "I see a man in black at the controls. He's . . . he's laughing, Edgar."  
  
At that very moment, flashes of light burst from the strange cylindrical mounting below the other ship's cabin.  
  
"Locke, get down!" Edgar shouted, at the same time swinging the wheel to the right and ducking beneath the control panel.  
  
Locke barely had a chance to cover his head with his hands before the entire front windscreen burst inward in a wave of shards. The sound of shattering glass and shells whizzing over his head was quickly drowned out by the crash of the same shells tearing through the cabin.  
  
Edgar glanced up, seeing that they had already passed the ship. He spun the wheel around, making sure to not get within the ship's line of fire again. They had been shot at for only about five seconds, but he counted more than fifty rounds during that time.  
  
"You think it's him?" Locke muttered sarcastically.  
  
Edgar paid no mind. He glanced at the holes in the wall behind him, most of which were around chest height. Putting his eye to one of the baseball-sized holes, he could see daylight. The shell had driven through the entire ship. Likely, most of the others did the same.  
  
"Locke, come here and pilot for me. Stay behind Morgan, no matter what."  
  
Locke took the helm, watching with curiosity as Edgar studied the small, short map table at the very front of the cockpit. Suddenly, Edgar tore the top loose and threw it aside. Then he ripped the sides off and threw those away as well.  
  
Now Locke understood. There was something hidden inside the table. Some sort of weapon.  
  
"What is it?" Locke asked.  
  
Edgar was already working on it. "It's a Magitek cannon, slightly modified on account of the sad loss of magic. I haven't used it since I mounted it on this ship, but I'm sure it still works."  
  
"You're going to shoot at Morgan's airship? Are you insane? Celes is on that thing!"  
  
"I'm aware. I'm going to use a Mythril round - no explosives or anything. I'll just knock that motor assembly right off the back of his airship. Celes will be fine. Now just keep pointing us at their stern. As soon as he turns, I'll take a shot."  
  
"Alright, I'll try." Locke paused. "Hey, what's this blinking red light over here mean?"  
  
Edgar didn't bother to look up. "That means we're on fire."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Locke tapped at the helm nervously. Morgan's ship abruptly turned to left.  
  
"Steady, Locke!"  
  
Edgar, leaning over the cannon, his eyes glued to the viewsight, suddenly jerked his head away from the gun and pressed the firing trigger.  
  
The deafening explosion shook the ship, popping both mens' ears and blowing out the few pieces of glass that were still in the cabin. Acrid white smoke filled the cockpit.  
  
Locke coughed and wiped his eyes. When the room cleared slightly, he could see a good bit of the engine on Morgan's ship was completely missing. The entire propeller assembly was gone.   
  
"Brilliant shot, Edgar!" Locke cheered, despite himself.  
  
Edgar jumped up and ran to the controls.  
  
"He's still turning, and I don't think he's happy."  
  
Locke stepped away as Edgar turned straight toward Morgan's ship, immediately pulling upward. The airship rose slowly, and all too soon the rumble of gunfire shook the _Terra Branford_ again.  
  
"They won't hit the cockpit," Edgar said. "He's probably trying to blow us up."  
  
"Swell."  
  
They were just above Morgan's canopy, out of range of his gun, when Locke noticed a hissing sound.  
  
"Edgar, is that . . ."  
  
Edgar grabbed Locke's shoulder and pulled him toward the front of the cockpit. "We've a ruptured fuel tank. It's time to go."  
  
"Goddess," Locke whispered.  
  
"Yeah, she's a bitch, isn't she?" Edgar proclaimed. "Let's hope my airship is payment enough for Celes's life. Now jump!"  
  
  
  
**IV. THE PALIDIN** Celes climbed up the stairs at the end of the hall and found herself on the main deck of Morgan's airship.  
  
_I_ knew _it!_  
  
She looked around, studying the layout of her prison. It was a surprisingly large ship, but ugly as hell. The deck was of some dark, rough wood that hurt her bare feet and stained them carbon black. The railings and fixtures were of wrought iron. From everywhere there came the scent of sulfur and death. As she scrutinized the canopy above her, which was oily as tar and filth, she noticed an object not too far away. It only took a moment to recognize the distinctive shape of the _Terra Branford_.  
  
_Edgar's ship! He's come to rescue me!   
  
Wait . . . what's all that smoke coming from it . . .?  
  
_ In a blinding flash, a ball of flame burst from the rear of the cabin, engulfing the entire airship within a split-second. Flaming pieces of the _Terra Branford_ rained down.  
  
For a moment shock overcame her - Celes stared dumbly, her mouth open. That mouth quickly seized itself shut, and she pounded her sword into the deck.  
  
_Why must everyone die? Damn you, all you gods and goddesses! Damn you to the most wicked of hells! Damn you for taking away everyone I love!_  
  
She heard footsteps behind her and turned toward the noise.  
  
Another one of Morgan's henchmen advanced on her with sword drawn. She pierced him with her cold, clear eyes, her face a twisted mask of beautiful fury. He stopped before her.  
  
This one was big. He had at least a foot and a half and one hundred pounds on her. He wore heavy canvas pants, boots, and a tight tank top that seemed to advertise scars of battle. He was entirely bald except for the scruff of an unkempt beard, and though his face seemed twisted and misshapen, his eyes were clear and watchful. He wasn't overly muscular, but she recognized the definition of his arms and chest enough to tell he was an experienced swordfighter. The broadsword he carried dwarfed hers and appeared impeccably sharp.   
  
He stood there, sizing her up. She knew that in the moment he stood there at ready, he had already studied her body shape, her musculature, her battle posture, her weapon, and her clothes. Surely he realized her lack of both footwear and armor, realizing her Silk Robe wouldn't protect her from even the lightest touch of a blade.   
  
She knew this because she remembered the way she thought as a warrior. She hoped she remembered enough. She hoped she was far more skilled than she appeared right now.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" she taunted. "Come fight me, coward."  
  
In an instant, he had advanced and slashed diagonally at her left shoulder, intending to cleave her from shoulder to pelvis. She tried to block, but knew the moment her lighter sword contacted his that she could not arrest his momentum. Rather, she dropped to her knees and tilted her sword horizontally. Sparks flew as his sword continued moving diagonally, scraping against the length of her sword held inches above her head.  
  
As he ended his swing, she could sense he meant to bring it right back and strike her leg. Acting on that, she dug her sword into the deck just beside her right leg and kicked him in the crotch.  
  
_Sorry to be so cruel, but I'm impatient. Every moment in which I'm not maiming your employer is one of supreme dissatisfaction.  
  
_ At the same instant, his sword struck her block. Though her bare foot probably didn't deal much pain, he surely wasn't in much comfort. Sensing his distraction, she immediately pulled out her sword, spun right, and swept her sword in a complete circle, slashing the man's throat.  
  
He stumbled backward, dropped his weapon, and collapsed on the deck.  
  
Now came the heavy stomp of boots to her side, near the edge of the ship. Screaming, she threw herself at the man, looking but not seeing, registering only the man's arms and the weapon it wielded, not even thinking until the man started shouting her name over and over again.  
  
"Celes! Celes! Celes, stop this!"  
  
She paused, the hilt of her sword locked with the hilt of the man's Illumina.  
  
"Edgar," she whispered.  
  
She looked up, seeing the graying blond hair of the aging king of Figaro strewn about a lined face. Edgar's brilliant blue eyes peered through his too-often shadowed face. He wore his typical combat garb - heavy upper armor in Figarian blue, dark gloves, and heavy boots. A few of his combat tools were clipped to his belt beside his scabbard. His clothes were stained black in places, and she realized he must have climbed down from the canopy as she was fighting Morgan's goon.   
  
"Yeah, it's me." He paused, placing a hand on her shoulder. For an instant, she thought he was going to cry. "What happened to you, Celes?"  
  
She lowered her weapon and embraced him with one arm.  
  
"I thought you were dead," she whispered.  
  
"Yeah, there's a lot of that going around," muttered a man beside her.  
  
She glanced up, her arm still around Edgar. Locke stood there. She hadn't even noticed him.   
  
He looked as she always remembered him, though with a few recent cuts and scratches on his face. The bandana was not the worn one she recognized, though she felt familiar with the jacket he wore. He too was well-armed; the hilts of a dirk and several throwing knives were visible on his belt. Two dark splotches of grime on his thighs showed where he had wiped his dirty gloves after climbing down from above.  
  
He stood with arms crossed, studying her.  
  
Studying how much she loved Edgar.  
  
Celes stared at Locke, not quite sure what to say. His cold blue eyes drilled into her.  
  
"I know," he said simply.  
  
Celes still had no response for him - she felt ashamed, hurt, and angry with herself. But given the incarceration, given the fact she had been so sure he was dead, she could not find it in her heart to cry or beg for his forgiveness, even though she had a feeling she owed him that.  
  
_Give him something. Fall on your knees and beg him to take your fickle heart back. Cry. Just a tear, Celes. Just an apology, muttered words. You don't even have to mean it. Give him something, Celes. If you love him, be humble. Even if you don't mean it. Even if you feel nothing but rage for Morgan right now. Give him something._  
  
Celes would not look away from Locke. Not a submissive gesture of her body showed, not a hint of obedience or pretty doe-eyes. Nothing threatening, but nothing complacent. She wouldn't apologize to him. Not today.  
  
"I know," he said again, "and I still love you. There is nothing you could do to change that."  
  
She tilted her head slightly, weighing the words in her head for a moment.  
  
And suddenly, like a burst of sun through storm clouds, she was smiling. A beautiful smile, a smile of perfect white teeth, dirt smudged lips, and the glacial sparkle of ice-blue eyes. Locke had not seen such a sincere token of pure happiness for a long time.  
  
"I'm glad," she said simply.  
  
Locke smiled back, more of a wry grin than anything else. He had hoped for more, and perhaps his dissatisfaction was evident.  
  
_She's a pure soul. A free spirit. I can't expect her to worry about my feelings the way I think about hers. Even when she hurts me I love her._  
  
Celes took a step toward Locke and put a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"And I love you as well. I want so badly to talk to you about what's happened, but I think we know this isn't the time, and it certainly isn't the place for it."  
  
Locke nodded. "Is this Morgan's ship?"  
  
"Yes. I've had some dealings with him. None were pleasant."  
  
"We're going to kill him, aren't we?" asked Locke.  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, this chapter was far too long in coming. I'm glad to see more people reviewing this story, as well as my older stuff. It helped motivate me to revise this as many times as it needed.  
  
I hope everyone still enjoys my story.  
  
- Scribe of Figaro  
  



	8. Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT  
  
  
  
**I. JUDGE  
  
** Morgan stood in the middle of the ship's prow, just forward of the bridge. Or, what was once the bridge. Now it was more like a mess of strewn wires and broken controls.  
  
He stood there with his sword, the Pearlsbane, balanced on his shoulder. He hadn't expected any need for the weapon, but he made a habit of keeping it handy regardless. He was glad of that now.  
  
The sword was a large, heavy scimitar. He could feel the heat radiating from the carbon-black blade and the pleasing texture of the skin-bound grip, even through the leather glove on his right hand. From the hilt a number of decorative raven feathers dangled - one for every warrior he had killed with the weapon.  
  
In his left hand he gripped the Imperial General's sword, still in its scabbard.  
  
They were coming. All three of them. But he was ready.  
  
He was taken by surprise a few minutes prior, which was something to which he was rapidly becoming unaccustomed.  
  
_I haven't been surprised like this since before I had the medallion.  
  
_ It wasn't the medallion's fault all this happened, though. He had gotten too excited in playing with his prisoner, and as a result he wasn't giving it the attention it deserved.   
  
He wasn't totally deaf to it, though. When the medallion told him that the prisoner's rescuers were approaching, he immediately left her, even though he was just beginning to have fun. The timing was unfortunate, as he was not finished with her yet, and would more than likely have to kill her now. That was a shame.  
  
Still, he left his prisoner and got to the bridge just in time to engage his attackers in their airship. He did them some serious damage, but couldn't prevent their boarding his ship. He destroyed theirs and they disabled his, so he couldn't say for sure who held victory.  
  
Without the main engine, the only thing his airship could do was descend. Still, he didn't want his multiple foes to split up, two detaining him in battle while one landed the ship. He wanted to kill them while in the air. After they were dead, he could spend all the time he needed piecing together the necessary controls and landing the ship safely, afterward finding his way to Zozo by land.  
  
This plan, which he formulated the moment he sensed that Locke and Edgar had landed on the canopy, was still a good one. He had hoped that the two men would confront him directly rather than going for Celes. Unfortunately, she managed to escape and kill both his guards. That surprised him too, as he thought his guards were stronger than that. Not nearly as strong as he, but surely one of them should have defeated a beaten, nearly naked woman.  
  
It didn't matter, though. Nothing did. His fun was ended prematurely, and he must now fight. He lost his airship and his toy, but there are plenty more airships and toys in this world.  
  
_I've enjoyed Celes more than most. These people who fought Kefka are an enticing bunch. Weren't there other females? The esper girl is dead, if I recall. There was another, though. A painter. Young thing. If she's anywhere near as feisty, I think I shall capture her at the first opportunity.  
  
_ Morgan looked down at the medallion and concentrated.  
  
_I see Celes Cole. More blood on her hands already. I sense her rage toward me, but I see no fear. I suppose I did a much better job on her when I was peering into her mind. Resorting to physical abuse didn't bother her at all. A pity. Hurting her was pleasing.  
  
I see Edgar Figaro. He carries a very powerful weapon. I see both anger and sorrow in him. He lost his airship, and that frustrates him. He fears his friend's anger. There is much guilt and suffering. What an absolute weakling.  
  
I see Locke Cole. His soul seethes with hatred. That's all there is in that dense skull of his. He seems bothered by his wife's transgression. He hates me with a passion, of course. And I'll be damned if that isn't blinding, white-hot rage for his old pal Edgar. I think he wants to kill him.   
  
_ Breaking off his meditative state, Morgan stood smiling.  
  
_That may prove useful.  
  
  
  
_ **II. JURY  
  
** Locke still harbored some anger toward Celes, but not much. He found her much easier to forgive. He loved her; he meant what he said.  
  
And when Celes turned her back to him as they began to look around the ship, his heart broke.  
  
He first noticed her hair, seeing it was totally devoid of ribbons, barrettes, or other accessories. He had never seen her without them - she never even bathed without something in her hair. Then he realized how disheveled her golden tresses had become, how they were soiled with dirt and grime and dried blood. He finally realized the unevenness and understood a considerable amount of her hair had been torn out.  
  
Beneath her messy, scattered hair he could not see much of her back. Still, he could tell that her robe was marked almost completely with splotches of blood from shoulder to shoulder and from neck to waist.   
  
And there was the matter of the robe itself. It was old, dusty, and torn in places. He knew she owned no such article of clothing. Why was she wearing it? Why didn't she have any shoes?  
  
He couldn't bear to ask her what Morgan had done to her. There was no way he could stand hearing it.  
  
"How many people are on this ship?" Edgar asked.  
  
Celes shook her head curtly. "I don't know. I saw Morgan with two men earlier. I've killed both of them."  
  
Edgar mused. "Well, we better stay alert. I think our best bet is to take control of the ship and land it before Morgan can fight us. If we can avoid a fight with him, then we'll get our friends together, prepare for battle, and track down Morgan later, when the odds are in our favor."  
  
"I disagree," said Celes. "We need to fight him immediately."  
  
Locke placed a hand on Celes's shoulder. "Honey, I know how you feel. But you're hurt, and I can't take care of you and fight at the same time. I certainly can't let Edgar fight Morgan all by himself."  
  
Celes stepped back and pointed her sword directly at Locke's throat. The point of the blade was still a few feet away from him, but her threat was clear.  
  
"Listen, _honey_," she enunciated icily, "you have no idea how I feel. Perhaps you're not keeping up with things, but I've just spent the past day playing 'prisoner of war' to the most sadomasochistic fuck this side of the Serpent Trench. I'm going to fight Morgan, and if I feel like it, you two can assist me. But you are one sorely mistaken little man if you think I'm going to leave this airship while Morgan is alive."  
  
Locke backed away. "Er, um . . ." He cleared his throat. "Celes, I'm sorry. You're in charge."  
  
"Edgar?" she barked.  
  
"Yes ma'am," he chirped. "Whatever you say, ma'am."  
  
Instantly her hostile demeanor disappeared. She lowered her weapon to a less offensive position and turned to the bow of the ship, leading the two men to where she believed fate lay.  
  
  
  
**III. EXECUTIONER  
  
** They had just passed the bridge when they saw him.  
  
"Gentlemen," Morgan greeted. "And lady. I see you've all given me some trouble today."  
  
"Morgan!" Locke shouted.   
  
The man smiled back, grinning broad with teeth white and terrible.  
  
"You've crossed me for the last time, thief."  
  
"I should say the same to you, demon!" spat Locke.  
  
"You will pay for what you've done," added Edgar.  
  
_Men and their taunts. Always posturing, always with taunts and belches and shouts and slamming their beer bellies together in triumph. Leave it to a woman to get done what needs to be done_, thought Celes.  
  
"Just shut up and fight," she shouted.   
  
Morgan nodded. "She gets to the point. But be warned - you will not survive this encounter."  
  
Celes didn't even wait for Morgan to finish speaking - already she was upon him. When she was within six feet of her enemy, he swung the Runic Blade lengthwise, causing the scabbard to fly loose toward her legs, intending to trip her. She jumped over it, then swung repeatedly at him in a flurry of controlled rage. He blocked each strike with the Runic Blade. After a few seconds he swung with his Pearlsbane, striking Celes in the left shoulder.  
  
She grunted, immediately jumping back. The cut wasn't deep, but already she could feel the blood coursing down her chest and back underneath her robe. She felt certain her shoulder was broken.  
  
Morgan didn't advance, clearly content in watching her suffer. Locke and Edgar stood behind her, shouting her name. She paid no attention, instead putting down her sword and reaching for one of the potions in the pocket of her robe. She pulled the top loose with her teeth and immediately poured the liquid on her wound. She grimaced at the burning sensation, but within seconds felt a good deal of strength in her arm again.  
  
Locke stepped past Celes, the Infinity Edge in his hand. He paused as he passed her, stretching out an arm to reassuringly grip her uninjured shoulder, or even run fingers through her hair. But he hesitated and drew back without touching her, realizing that at this time, comfort would be only an insult to her pride. He walked past her toward their enemy.  
  
Morgan raised an eyebrow as he noticed the weapon Locke held.  
  
"Ah, I see you have my gift. So good of you to return it to me."  
  
Locke shook his head, then tossed the weapon overboard. Edgar and Morgan stared in shock.  
  
"Your lust for that weapon has tainted it with evil. I feel corrupted even holding it. And I don't need it to defeat you," Locke sneered. He pulled a dirk from his belt and crouched low. "_This_ is how a treasure hunter fights."  
  
Morgan chuckled lightly, though the rage at seeing Locke throw away his prized possession was still evident in the lines of his face. "And here I was expecting a challenge." He threw the Runic Blade over his shoulder. Celes's eyes followed the blade as it flew through the air, seeing the weapon stick in the deck behind Morgan.  
  
Locke rushed him, swinging his blade again and again but never getting past Morgan's defense. When he lunged forward too far, Morgan dodged right, caught Locke's arm, and brought the hilt of the Pearlsbane to his face.  
  
Locke stumbled, blood streaming from his nose, and fell on his back. Morgan advanced, turning his sword for the death blow.  
  
Already, Celes had sprinted past the two combatants and reacquired her sword. She shivered with anticipation as her fingers traced the grip, then tightened around it. Soundlessly, she pulled the point from the deck and balanced the weapon in both hands. She spread her legs into a crouching stance, the sword before her in the battle posture she had used so many times before - both terribly comfortable and ruthless. The blade thirsted blood. So did she.  
  
_There is nothing - not a sunrise, not a flower, not a rainbow - nothing more beautiful than the moment before the attack.  
  
_ Celes waited as Morgan held his dark sword above her husband, waited until the second before the thrust, when Morgan would be his least balanced.  
  
She rushed him, sword pulled back for a terrific slice.  
  
Morgan thrust downward, but instead of running through the prostrate treasure hunter before him, he turned his sword to his right with eyes wide, just barely blocking Celes's attack. Morgan spun around and caught her blade at the edge of his hand guard.   
  
Morgan smiled, an expression that would curdle milk. Celes responded in kind.  
  
Morgan advanced, swinging heavy blows that drove Celes backward as she blocked. With every block she held, bone-jarring shock drove through her arms, her chest, and her legs. Each strike she checked rewarded her with pain, but she grunted and grit her teeth and kept her defense strong and swift. She allowed him to push her toward the bow, giving Locke some space to retreat and nurse his wound.   
  
Edgar had watched both his friends struck down with muted horror. Morgan hadn't killed either of them, but he could tell from watching the man fight that their multi-fronted attack would not work as easily as he expected. Morgan's skill clearly advertised the fact that he was not fighting seriously - there was within him a fountain of strength and speed that was untapped as of yet. Edgar couldn't help but feel that their only chance was to strike quickly and without warning.  
  
Edgar sheathed his sword and took his Autocrossbow from its holster. Discreetly, he cocked the bow and aimed it at his target.  
  
Celes lunged, but Morgan sidestepped far quicker than she could ever have expected. She found herself flying headlong, her sword before her, wincing with expectation of Morgan's blade cleaving her spine.  
  
Such was not the case, however. Morgan buried his left hand in her hair, pulling her toward his chest. Her head snapped back, and though she could not pull away she held tight to her sword. He immediately trapped her in a headlock, squeezing so tight she could feel the tendons in her neck pop.   
  
"Cutting you open would be far too quick," Morgan whispered. "Sorry I don't have the time to strangle you properly - this will have to do."  
  
Edgar began to panic as he saw Celes's face turn red. Her mouth opened wide and the tip of her tongue protruded, resting on her lower lip, as she frantically tried to pull air down her compressed throat. Morgan was speaking to her, but he could not hear the words.  
  
He didn't even think as he brought the Autocrossbow to his shoulder and fired a bolt directly at Morgan. Only after pulling the trigger did it register in his mind how quickly Morgan turned, putting Celes directly in the path of the projectile.  
  
Celes was also very, very fast. As she felt herself pulled upward and to Morgan's chest, no doubt serving as a human shield, she saw Edgar fire. With blinding speed, she swung her sword before her, feeling the blade contact the crossbow bolt, but only barely.  
  
Morgan was surprised enough to allow his grip to loosen, and Celes took the opportunity to sink her teeth into his forearm.  
  
Morgan shouted and released her, taking a step backward but making no effort to nurse his arm, which was marked by two hemispherical bleeding wounds.  
  
Celes turned to him, again positioned in battle stance. She turned her head and spat blood. His blood. She coughed, and her breathing was haggard. She sucked in air though her mouth, which was stained dark crimson. Her teeth were red-orange and clenched in fury.  
  
Behind her, Edgar stood with his weapon still aimed at the two combatants. Whether he remained in that way due to shock or shame was debatable. Locke stepped toward him and firmly placed his hand on top of the sight, pointing the barrel to the ground.  
  
"I think you've done enough," he seethed.  
  
Celes growled, then leapt toward Morgan, swinging once, twice. Morgan held his sword with both hands now, and his entire arm dripped with blood, flinging droplets as he blocked Celes's attacks.  
  
It only took a few seconds before Celes's injured throat could no longer keep up the demand for air that her fight required. Gasping for breath, she began to step backward.  
  
Screaming words of rage in a language no one else present understood, Morgan set forth a massive blow that Celes lacked the strength to block. The tip of the Pearlsbane danced across her neck, slicing her throat.  
  
Celes's eyes widened in horror as she clapped her left hand to her throat, feeling warm lifeblood stream through her fingers, down her neck, and into her robe. She stumbled backward, then fell to her knees.  
  
Both Locke and Edgar screamed: Locke uttering a cry of dread, Edgar roaring in rage. Both ran to where Morgan taunted the dying woman they loved.  
  
Locke fell to one knee beside Celes, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back into him, but still kept her eyes fixed to Morgan, and her sword remained ready in her right hand.  
  
Edgar had already thrown his Autocrossbow aside and drew his sword as he ran to Morgan. He brought the sword above his head, making no effort to block as Morgan thrust his sword toward Edgar's chest.  
  
The Pearlsbane, aided by Edgar's momentum, tore through his chestplate just right of midline, burying itself almost entirely in his torso.   
  
With his last bit of his strength, Edgar brought the Illumina down on Morgan's skull, striking him just above his left ear and cutting deep.  
  
Edgar lost hold of his sword, and it came loose from Morgan's horrific wound, falling to the increasingly bloody deck.  
  
Morgan fell backward, but retained enough malice somewhere in his brain to ensure he did not die alone. As he fell backward over the bow railing, both hands shot out to Edgar's collar. Edgar, whose injury left him barely conscious, offered no resistance as both he and Morgan fell off into space.  
  
  
  
**IV.THE LAST TEMPTATION**  
  
Locke didn't see - his attentions were so heavily focused on Celes he saw no one but her - but he heard the struggle, and he was aware that it had stopped.   
  
Celes had her left hand over her neck. Blood flowed between her fingers, and Locke very carefully placed his hand upon her. He placed his arm around her back, supporting her. She turned toward him.  
  
Her eyes were clear, and her face had yet to turn ashen.   
  
_She should be dying. Am I imagining this?  
  
_ "It's not that bad," she whispered hoarsely. "It's just a scratch."  
  
Locke found himself holding his breath as he carefully grabbed Celes's wrist and moved it away from her injury. He could see a deep cut about a half-inch long across her throat, as well as the ugly dark blue bruise forming around it. Locke tore the glove off his right had and touched the injury with his fingers, wiping the blood away for just an instant. He could see the skin hadn't been torn through completely, and though he could hear her hoarse breath in her heavily bruised throat, he did not detect the sickening gurgle of blood filling her lungs.  
  
_She's going to be okay_, thought Locke. _No, not okay. I can look in her face and tell she's been hurt in ways she was never hurt before. But she isn't going to die. Not today.  
  
_ Locke grabbed her, wrapping his hands around her back and squeezing her close.  
  
"I thought I lost you," he cried.  
  
She released her sword and placed her hand reassuringly on his back while reaching into the robe with her free hand. She took out another potion and drank it as Locke loosened his grip and watched her. The cut stopped bleeding almost instantly. The injury was still severe, and Locke imagined that there would probably be a scar there when it had healed fully.  
  
Celes found herself staring at Locke, the empty bottle of Potion still in her hand.  
  
_He looks like a spooked deer. I'm not sure I can blame him. I can't imagine how I would feel in his shoes. He worries about me too much, I think.  
  
_ She scooted her legs underneath her until she was in a kneeling position, then tried to stand. She couldn't.  
  
_I'm in worse shape than I thought._ She picked up her sword again; found it heavy in her hands. _I can't stand, but I can still fight. Maybe ten percent combat effective, I think?  
  
Commandant Harrington was big on combat effectiveness. She kept up this idea that you could ascribe a number to how battle-ready you were. I never liked the idea. I mean, it's too abstract to put a number to.  
  
Funny how my lectures come back to me at a time like this.  
  
Where is Edgar?  
  
**What happened to Morgan?  
  
**_ She dug the tip of the sword into the deck, using the hilt as a handle to pull her to her feet.  
  
_Now Celes, a good Imperial soldier uses her sword properly. It's a weapon, not a cane for a cripple.  
  
_ "Twenty . . . percent," she hissed as she straightened out her wobbly legs.  
  
Locke arched his eyebrows, a silent "What the hell?"  
  
The sword broke free from the deck, and Celes fell into Locke's arms.  
  
"Let me go," she hissed. "Find Edgar. And find Morgan!"  
  
Nervously, regretfully, he set her down into a sitting position and stepped away from her.  
  
_I didn't even think - where did they go?_ thought Locke.  
  
Clearly, there was only one place they could have gone. Edgar's bloody sword was right there on the deck, next to the railing.  
  
He stood at the edge of the deck and leaned over, shocked at what he found.  
  
He hadn't expected to see anything at all, for he had already believed Edgar and Morgan had gone overboard, and if that were true, there would be no evidence of their plummet. The two would fall, struggling as they went, trapped in the most futile fight, the winner of which would strike the ocean below an instant after the loser. That would be all: an insignificant splash in the sea, seen by no one. No body would ever wash ashore, no proof of life or death would ever surface. Both friend and enemy would simply have been cast into the great ambiguity of near-certain death, and though there was no chance either could have survived, there would always be the hope or fear that one or the other had made it. Such was the moment, fleeting though it was, that Locke considered Edgar his friend again. What Locke didn't know, what Morgan probably didn't know, and what Edgar couldn't have known, was that at this particular part of the airship there was a mooring post just below deck level, and at this post about a half-dozen rough hewn ropes appeared permanently fused in knots too tight and too old to ever be loosened, their ends hanging anywhere from two to ten feet below the airship deck. An arm's length below the spot where Locke stood, Edgar dangled, holding a rope with his left hand. The tip of Morgan's sword protruded through his back, driven completely through him. Edgar looked up to him, blood dripping from either side of his mouth, apparently unable to speak.  
  
A few feet below, subject to the aggressive heel of Edgar's boot, Morgan hung on another rope with his left hand. He had sustained some horrific wound to the left side of his skull, and blood poured down his face. Both his right arm and leg flopped uselessly in the wind, no doubt paralyzed due to his injury. And yet, his left eye, terribly hemorrhaged, seemed to peer knowingly at Locke. And though Morgan's face seemed frozen, he could hear his voice.  
  
_"Locke, help me."  
  
_ Locke shook his head, looking worriedly at Edgar.  
  
_"No, not him. Not Edgar. He's the one who hurt you. He took Celes from you, remember?"  
  
_ "Shut up," Locke shouted. "You're a murderer and a thief."  
  
_"Yes, that's what they call us treasure hunters. But we're loyal to each other, aren't we, Locke?"  
  
_ "You . . . you hurt Celes!"  
  
_"And I'm sorry, Locke. I kidnapped her, and maybe I hurt her even though I shouldn't have. But I only meant to punish her. For what she did to you, Locke. I'm sorry I did the things you should have done."  
  
_ "No," Locke hissed. Morgan's words wove themselves into his brain, and though he didn't believe them on their content, there was something deep in them he wanted to believe. He listened.  
  
_"But I didn't rape her. Edgar did that. I didn't cuckold you. Edgar did that, too. And I never pretended to be your friend just to take your wife. That was Edgar, always Edgar."  
  
_ A throwing knife appeared in Locke's right hand.  
  
_"Locke, if you could only see Edgar when he took Celes. Can you imagine what it looked like when Edgar ripped off her nightgown? Or stripped her, on your bed? Or when he pulled apart those white, trembling thighs and thrust into her again and again and **again**?"  
  
_ "Enough!" Locke shouted, slashing at the ropes with his knife.  
  
Somewhere in Locke's mind, he was cutting the rope he knew Morgan held. And somewhere else, perhaps nearer to the truth, he was simply swinging in blind anger to silence Morgan's voice. But deep in the worst recesses of his psyche, Locke knew only insatiable fury for Edgar, and wanted only to sever the lifeline the King of Figaro held.  
  
Locke drew back, and with a sickening snap he saw the rope Edgar held give way, and his friend fall into space.  
  
Morgan's voice did not hesitate. _"A wise decision. Now, if you would please . . ."  
  
_ "Trickster!" Locke shouted, throwing the knife and planting Morgan in the left shoulder. Morgan's hand immediately lost grip of the rope, and he plummeted backward into space as well.  
  
Locke stepped backward, horrified.  
  
"I take it back," he whispered. "Edgar . . . god, I take it back, all of it. This isn't honor."  
  
"Locke?"  
  
He turned, seeing Celes standing a few feet away. She was leaning on the railing for support, and the tears that began to swell in her eyes told Locke she had seen everything. Her tone changed from innocent to accusatory almost instantly.  
  
"Locke!"  
  
And finally, that sound of immeasurable hurt he had never before heard in her voice.  
  
"Locke, what have you _done_?"  
  
  
  



	9. Nine

  
  
CHAPTER NINE  
  
**I. PORTRAIT OF AN ARTIST**   
  
Relm sat on the very edge of the _Falcon's_ bow, one leg wrapped tightly around the railing below her, the other waving into space. Her _gi_ ruffled and snapped in the wind, the top often trapping air and ballooning outward, at which times she pulled the material close to her and crossed her arms over her chest. Otherwise, one hand remained near her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun as she stared off into the distance.   
  
Setzer watched her, at times entranced with her. There was nothing he could do, for he was a gentleman, and what more, a husband. But the young woman before him, the artist that was a work of art herself, was the sort of beauty Setzer saw so rarely that he couldn't help but watch her.   
  
He wished he were a painter, too. He used to be one, once. But that was long ago. He wanted to paint her, as she sat now. He wanted to capture that essence of Relm that invigorated him so.   
  
He wondered if other men felt the same way. More than likely, they felt something. The girl was clearly half succubus and half muse, and the type of emotion a man felt in himself while watching her must be a sort of mirror of his own desire.   
  
Setzer considered himself above all else a student of the beauty of life, and as such his deepest, darkest desire for Relm was to dance with her in a field of wildflowers. Most men would want different things, dirty things. Things that would destroy the innocent image Setzer held of the Thamasian beauty with the fire-red hair.   
  
She had changed so much, grown from the young girl he had once known to the young woman she was. How old was she, now? Twenty-two years, Setzer believed. Older than Celes was when he first met her. And yet, most of her growing up had happened before she became a teenager, back in the adventuring days. For this, Setzer would have expected her to be more mature than she was, but Relm catered to no one's expectations.   
  
It was Relm's sharp eyes that first perceived the tiny ball of orange, a barely visible flash and soundless explosion. She jumped backward off the railing on which she was perched and turned to him, shouting.   
  
Setzer turned the _Falcon_ toward the place where Relm pointed excitedly, fearfully. Within a minute both of them could see the black cloud of smoke. He accelerated.   
  
They were still at least a mile off when it became clear to Setzer that the ship he saw before him was Morgan's, and the few wisps of gray smoke off its side was more than likely evidence of a second airship lost in battle.   
  
It was then they saw what looked like a sack thrown off the side and cascade through the clouds below. Relm screamed, absolutely howled, and began to shout again and again that it was Edgar who had fallen. Setzer had no idea how the young woman's eyes could be good enough to tell. Perhaps some Thamasian skill, perhaps a technique taught to her by Sabin. Whatever the case, Setzer believed her.   
  
"Hang on!" he shouted, and the moment Relm grabbed hold of a sturdy length of cord attached to the gunwale, the airship plummeted through the clouds like the bird of prey of its namesake.   
  
  
  
**II. KINGDOM COME**   
  
_I don't feel a thing  
And I stopped remembering  
The days are just like moments turned to hours.  
Mother used to say, 'If you want, you'll find a way.'  
But Mother never danced through fire showers.  
- Rain, Cowboy Bebop  
_   
  
It was springtime, and as they often did King Edgar and Terra Queen left the Castle Figaro and took a week-long vacation in a place undisclosed to all but their most trusted advisors.   
  
More often than not, the place they would stay was Mobliz, the village destroyed utterly by Kefka that had been cared for by Terra over so many years. With the flow of Figarian money and industry, the place had again become populated, a small but bustling town with a culture and livelihood all its own.   
  
The children Terra had cared for during The Dark Year and had visited many times thereafter were teenagers now, many young adults. She still played with them, taking them on tours of the arboretums Edgar had helped build, and often spending the twilight hours catching fireflies with the ones that were still quite young.   
  
The older ones were more interested in Edgar, and though the King was unused to caring for children, they had enough maturity to listen quietly as he told them about the adventures he had against the Empire. For hours he would speak to a group of mostly teenage boys who sat in the grass around the oak tree he would rest against. They would often come by in late afternoons, and Edgar enjoyed the company, for here in these young people there was such a want for his stories he couldn't resist telling them in full detail. And in his heart he hoped the young men and women before him remembered his stories in a deep and meaningful way, a living record of the trials that were required to ensure them and their descendants a chance at life and happiness, far more strongly held in their minds than in the stagnant written records he had dictated over a matter of weeks in his court.   
  
And when the mothers of the town called their children home for the dinner hour and the stars burned in the skies, Terra would bring the children to their homes and then join Edgar beside the oak tree. More often than not he would have already set out the picnic blanket and their supper, but sometimes she would find him napping, and at such times she would roust him with gentle caresses and soft kisses.   
  
It was one of those kisses Edgar felt as he fell, and as he parted the last bit of cloud and could see below him the tumultuous ocean, he weakly put a hand to his cheek and thanked whatever God there was that he could live that one moment before he died, the one moment when all was perfect and good and the woman he loved more than anything was there to comfort him in his final moments, just as he comforted her.   
  
_Please let me see her again_, he thought. _Please let there be a place where I can see her_.   
  
And even as Edgar wished it, he could see the green waters below form into a ghostly image of Terra, smiling at him, her arms outstretched, her hair loose and billowing and her dress shining like the sun. She had the wings of an angel, and though he could not hear the words she spoke, they were comforting to him. Anxiously he reached toward her, and as he did so a terrific blow shook him to the core as if he had been struck down from heaven. He closed his eyes and did not open them.   
  
  
  
**III. VENGEANCE**   
  
"You killed him," she whispered.   
  
Finding some strength unknown to her before, Celes got to her feet, brandishing her sword.   
  
"You killed him!"   
  
Locke stepped backward as she advanced upon him. Finding himself backed up against the railing, he quickly unsheathed his dirk. For a brief moment, he held it before him, ready to fight his own wife. Just as quickly, his feelings of injustice overcame his bloodlust, and he threw the weapon aside.   
  
"What are you waiting for?" he shouted. He spread his arms wide, then pounded at his chest with his fist. "Right here, Celes. Right in the heart. You've been killing me all week." He leaned forward, sneering. "Why stop now?"   
  
She growled, lowering her sword ever so slightly to the ground.   
  
"And what about you? You leave me alone for days, even weeks at a time. You never write when you go. I was sure you were dead, Locke. And I come to find that you never were, it was just one of your tricks. You could have prepared me, damn it!"   
  
Her fingers tightened around the hilt.   
  
"And if that's not enough, you lead this psychopath Morgan to our door. Do you have any idea what he did to me? Can you even imagine the pain and the humiliation?"   
  
She advanced slightly toward him.   
  
"So I fucked Edgar, alright? So be it. But I'm not a coward of a man who abandons his wife, then exposes her to the insanity of whatever cutthroat you've decided to piss off that week. Nor am I the slayer of my best friend. Call me what you will - slut, harlot, whore. I call you _murderer_."   
  
She swung, but already her strength was sapped, and as she fell forward Locke caught her arms. The sword dropped to the deck, and she found herself in Locke's tight embrace.   
  
"Let me go," she shouted, her protests muffled by the fabric of his jacket. She grabbed at his lapels, trying to push free, but his arms were iron bands around her weakened body and she could not wrest herself away. Even as she struggled she could feel his breathing, his trembling, and know that he was sobbing.   
  
Now she was crying too, and she could barely speak, the tears were so bitter. She found herself choking, clutching at Locke while at the same time pushing him away.   
  
"Let me go, you son of a bitch."   
  
She felt a terrible pressure in her head, an overwhelming dizziness, and she recognized her body was succumbing to the hunger, beating, and exertion she had gone through over the course of the day.   
  
"I . . . I _hate_ you" she whispered as she slumped against him.   
  
Locke held her for a moment more, then placed a hand behind her head and gently laid her down on the deck. He wiped his eyes and gazed upon her unconscious form, now bending over to brush the hair from her face, now pressing fingers to her neck to check her pulse, now leaning down to put an ear to her chest and hear her slow but steady breathing. He adjusted her robe to cover her fully, then took her hands and placed them on her stomach, making her appear to him less like a bruised and beaten woman and more like a serenely sleeping angel.   
  
He crouched on his knees beside her, squeezing her hands in his own. There was little more he could do, aside from search Morgan's airship for medical supplies for her. He wasn't going to do that, however - partly because he was unwilling to leave her alone for even a moment, partly because he knew Morgan would keep no item capable of healing; his devices were only that of suffering and death, evidenced by the woman he loved lying before him.   
  
He knew if she didn't arise soon, she never will. There would be no rescue, as the only man who knew their danger was cast to the oceans in a fit of rage. There would be no escape, as he saw the state of the bridge and knew he lacked the skill to repair the controls and land the ship safely. There was no hope, only the assurance that within days or even hours the airship would begin to sink, accelerating until they met the sea with such speed as to ensure a quick death.   
  
What struck him at that moment was the fact he had doomed her - the terrible realization came to him that had Edgar lived, he would know how to repair and land the ship, and they would live.   
  
"I killed us all, didn't I?" he whispered sadly. "I guess I always knew my temper would do me in." He squeezed her hands tighter, clenching his teeth to hold back a rage of self-effacement. "I just never thought I'd hurt so many of my friends along the way."   
  
He sighed, bending down to hold her face in his hands and kiss her just once more, softly, on her lips.   
  
He kneeled beside her and took her hands again, bowing his head and closing his eyes. Here he would stay until the very end, until death had taken her, and long after. Until they fell from the sky and they had both perished, he would stay at her side.   
  
And until the mountains fell and the seas boiled away, he would love her.   
  
  
  
**IV. SETZER EX MACHINA**   
  
The _Falcon_ raced toward the falling object, and as Setzer positioned the airship so that he was in free fall directly below it, he could see that there were in fact two objects, not one. Now he saw clearly they were people, and since he could not identify either of them just yet, he hoped he was saving two living people from the sea and not corpses.   
  
Once he was in position, only a few hundred feet above sea level, he pulled up sharply. The two bodies struck the deck hard and rolled about twenty feet aft, each leaving long trails of blood.   
  
Now he could see one of those bodies was Edgar, and he muttered a prayer as he strained against the ship's controls, desperately pulling the _Falcon_ out of its dive. Relm didn't wait for the airship to level out, for already she was on all fours, clawing her way to the fallen king.   
  
She grabbed at him, hugging him, cradling his head, and clearly she could see he was unconscious and dying, run through with some sinister weapon. Anxiously, she ran her fingers along the flat of the blade sticking from his chest, then touched her fingers to her tongue. A sickly sweet but acrid taste filled her mouth.   
  
She felt lighter, and saw Setzer running towards her, then realized the ship was leveled out.   
  
"Help me pull this sword out," she yelled. "It's poison. It's killing him!"   
  
Setzer kneeled to Edgar's side, but as he did so a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.   
  
As he turned he saw the other man standing at the edge of the deck. His face was a broken mess, his eyes dark and lifeless, and as he moved his head lolled from side to side. His arms waved back and forth, and his feet seemed to drag along the deck rather than walk.   
  
_That's him. That's Morgan, or what remains of him._   
  
Setzer got the impression he was not looking at a human, or anything like it. What he saw was a corpse, a gruesome puppet of a man whose strings were now becoming tangled   
  
Setzer rose, and with a flick of the wrist a razor-sharp playing card found its way to his closed right hand.   
  
"Morgan!" he cried. "Stay where you are!"   
  
The thing before him shook his head and moved side to side like a rag doll in the teeth of some dog. Almost comically, Morgan stuck out his right hand and waggled his index finger back and forth. His mouth opened, enunciating the words, but no change in his expression was to be seen. His voice echoed like the stone walls of a crypt.   
  
"Careful now, Setzer. I've lost this battle, but I can still take a few more with me, if I must."   
  
Slowly the thing backed away, and for a moment it floated and he could see the toes of its boots scraping the deck. Now its hands gripped the railing.   
  
"This is not the end, my friend. I do not die here - merely rest, and wait. It will take many years; I do not deny that. But someday your grandchildren will know my wrath, as will the children of Cole. I will destroy the families of your friends, and I will sit on the bloodied throne of Figaro and rule as I see fit. All this will happen and more."   
  
Setzer had always been a man of words, and yet he knew the wisdom when the time for words had passed and the time for action was at hand. He let fly his weapon, embedding the card in the very iris of the eye on the cursed medallion. Morgan collapsed on the deck like a sack of rocks.   
  
Setzer stepped toward the body, and as he did so a wave of strange and oppressive heat struck him. He paused for a moment, then reached down to where his throwing weapon lay embedded in the amulet. As he pulled, the chain holding the medallion snapped. Setzer stood, holding the medallion and the card in his hands. He removed the card and placed it in his pocket.   
  
Slowly he perceived a new sound besides the thrumming of the _Falcon_'s engines, the creaking of the ship's boards, the laments and curses of Relm, the churning of the seas below, and the rush of wind.   
  
He heard the roar of the ocean over rocky shores, and as he closed his eyes he heard the cries of gulls. He opened his eyes and found himself no longer on the deck of his ship - rather, he stood at the edge of a vast promontory overlooking the rocky merging of sea and land. It was a place he had been before, so many times before, and the power this place kept over him made his heart heavy.   
  
He heard a light rustling behind him. Setzer turned and saw a young woman appear from behind a group of blackberry bushes.   
  
She stepped toward him, and Setzer's eyes took in her bare feet, tight black leggings, and ruffled white shirt. A red scarf wrapped around her waist waved in the wind, as did the raven tresses that lined a dark, smiling face.   
  
_Daryl . . ._   
  
"I survived," she said. "I survived the crash, and I've been searching the world for you."   
  
She embraced him, and suddenly her lips were upon his. Setzer sighed, then tensed. His eyes widened in fright as he seized her shoulders and pushed her away.   
  
_This isn't real._   
  
"What's wrong?" she asked, her eyebrows knit with concern.   
  
"You're not Daryl," Setzer said, quietly but firmly.   
  
He looked to the sky and shouted. "Demon, tempt me no more!"   
  
As he looked back to Daryl he saw she was no longer there, and where his hands had grasped her shoulders he found he was holding either end of the broken chain, the scratched medallion hanging between them, the eye upon it glowing red, filling his head with strange thoughts he had never possessed before. Thoughts of power and superiority, thoughts of always taking and never wanting. Thoughts of abandoning his friends and his wife, of taking Relm for his own and hurting her, of viewing and controlling the thoughts of anyone at anytime. And over it all, the eternal promise of more power, more wealth, more sex, more everything than any man could ever want.   
  
If Setzer was tempted, it was only for a moment, for immediately the horror of having his own mind invaded sized him. With a shout of revulsion, he threw the medallion overboard.   
  
He leaned against the railing and gasped for breath, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. He kicked Morgan's corpse in frustration, which did nothing but gurgle slightly.   
  
Setzer turned to where Edgar lay, seeing that Relm had already removed the deadly sword and was staunching the bleeding with her rolled-up overshirt.   
  
"We must take him below decks," Setzer shouted from across the deck. He approached her, but was surprised to see her pick Edgar up in her arms and walk briskly to the hatch. The man must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, not counting his armor, but Relm seemed to have no difficulty in carrying him. Clearly, Sabin's training was quite effective.   
  
They took him to one of the rooms and placed him on the bed. They stripped him of his armor and shirt. Relm began to tend to his wounds, but it appeared their attempts would be futile.   
  
"Wait a moment," Setzer said. He ran out the room to his own quarters, throwing open the closet and digging through piles of clothes until he reached a small lockbox. He took a key from around his neck and unlocked the box, removing from it a small crystal bottle filled with pink liquid.   
  
An Elixir. The healers who made such medicines had died long ago, perhaps before the first War of the Magi. Twelve years ago, before he had met the friends he would go on and fight Kefka with, there were no more than a few dozen still in existence, each worth a fortune. They had collected many and used them all before the battle was over. It was hard to estimate how many were still around today, given how old they were and how many were yet to be found, but Setzer believed less than a half-dozen Elixers existed anywhere on Gaia. Setzer himself only had one, and it was worth a thousand airships, a hundred casinos. The entire Treasury of Figaro could not afford to buy it.   
  
For only a moment Setzer hesitated, staring at the vial in his hand. It was a moment Setzer would regret for the rest of his life, but the guilt would come later. Now he rushed to Edgar's side and poured the very essence of life down his throat.   
  
He could feel a pulse again and see Edgar breathing, and Relm's tears suddenly became those of joy. She hugged Setzer roughly, then sat beside Edgar and held his hand, staring into his face eagerly.   
  
"We need to investigate Morgan's ship," Setzer said. "I really don't know what we'll find there, but I want you out on the deck with me." He found it hard to breathe, and as Relm turned to him with wet eyes he knew she saw his thoughts, realized how scared he felt, how inadequate.   
  
Setzer was terrified. He was usually quite strong in his nature. He prided himself on that. He was a loner, a wandering gambler, a gentleman of fortune. But seeing what had been done to Edgar rattled him, and he couldn't recall the adventurous demeanor he was so famous for.   
  
There could be quite a fight to be had, as surely Morgan brought his personal guard with him for his horrific errands. That did scare him, but not too much. He wasn't afraid of death.   
  
What chilled him to the very core was the thought of finding Celes slaughtered on the deck of that cursed ship. He couldn't face that alone. It would break him utterly. He wanted Relm there. He needed her to be strong for him.   
  
Relm wiped her eyes and sniffed, and as she stood she seemed much taller. She was wearing a sort of tight sleeveless shirt, and he saw the muscles in her arms flex. She was psyching herself up. Pumping herself up. She wanted to stay with Edgar, as did he, but she thirsted for a serious fight.   
  
And as she spoke, the years of training by Sabin's hand, the years of mental and physical preparation, and that ineffable Thamasian attitude came through clear as the sun.   
  
"Let's go."   
  
  



	10. Ten

CHAPTER TEN   
  
  
**I. TOUCH OF EARTH**

Locke had thought it his imagination upon hearing the roar of another airship's engines, but as they became louder he felt Celes stir and moan and realized she too heard it, so loud and vibrant that it shook her from what might have been a small coma. 

Rising triumphantly from below them the _Falcon_ came, the silver and gold of its canopy and riggings glittering in the sunlight. His despair lifted and he cried out, and Celes, forgetting her anger briefly, took Locke's hands for support and sat up. 

Setzer was at the controls, his face full first of disbelief but then of sheer joy. Relm jumped up and down where she stood at the bow and screamed exaltedly, waving her arms and laughing. 

Setzer threw a grappling hook and docked the ships together. Celes turned to Locke so that only he could see her face, and the brief snarl she elicited had _this is not over_ written all over it. Locke nodded curtly to show he understood and helped her to her feet. Relm threw a gangplank over the void between the two ships and both treasure hunter and ex-General walked across it. 

She hugged them together, and Celes stifled a grunt of pain. Relm laughed again, covering her face to try and hide her amusement. 

"We thought you were dead, Locke!" 

Locke sighed heavily. "It's a long story, and it's becoming even longer. How did you find us?" 

"Setzer's been tracking you guys for days now," Relm replied. As she calmed down, Locke sensed restraint in her voice. Did he only imagine it, or was she really projecting her thoughts toward him, that she knew what had happened? 

"Edgar," Locke whispered, and as she heard him he felt Celes squeeze the shoulder she leaned on, her nails biting into his flesh. "Did he . . . is he?" He couldn't even ask her. What chance was there that they had managed to save him? 

"He's down below," Relm said. "He's pretty messed up, but I think he'll be okay. Sabin taught me medicine as part of training, so I think I can take care of him. I can make him comfortable anyway. What happened to him?" 

Locke turned away, his face ashen. "It . . . it was horrible. I can't discuss it now. But I will. Soon." As he turned back to her, not to face her eyes, but to look in her direction and hope she would end the conversation, he saw Setzer across the deck, wrapping a tarp around a body. 

"And Morgan?" Locke asked. 

Relm waved toward the corpse. "Dead as a post. Ought to make a good ransom, though. I'll bet he's wanted, dead or alive, for half a million or more." 

Locke nodded, then began to walk Celes toward the hatch that led to their quarters deep in the belly of the airship. 

"We'll need some privacy, but afterward I promise to tell you everything," Locke said.   
  
  
**II. THOUGHTS OF ICE**

The two of them retreated to one of the half-dozen small passenger rooms Setzer kept in the _Falcon_. Celes entered first, glancing around the room. She wavered a bit as if she was still dizzy from her collapse. 

They had sparse living conditions on the road, but Setzer did what he felt necessary to keep himself and his friends comfortable during long voyages. There was a small straw tick mattress to her right with sheets and a small cotton pillow. Celes leaned down and pushed them to the floor. To the left was a dresser, upon which were a basin and an assortment of white towels. She caught her image in the mirror and looked away. 

Staring straight ahead at the moderately dressed porthole, she waited to hear the door behind her lock, then unfastened her robe and let it drop to the floor. 

Behind her, Locke winced. The injuries she sustained looked far more severe than he had imagined previously. He placed the jug of water he had drawn from the ship's supply on the counter, and beside it set down the small wooden box he had been carrying under his arm, taken from a storage closet in the hall. 

Celes pulled a clean white sheet from the pile on the floor and spread it evenly on the mattress, then climbed atop it. She lay down on her chest, resting her face in her arms. 

Locke ran his fingers along the design on the box he had carried, a simple symmetric cross. Opening the clasp, he found inside a number of gauze pads, some syringes, and numerous bottles. There was also a can of antiseptic salve, which he set aside along with the gauze and a roll of tape. 

Locke took one of the smaller towels and dipped it in the pitcher of water, then wrung it out. He then turned to his wife. 

Celes lay there, eyes closed, looking surprisingly content despite her ordeal. She had pulled her long hair aside so that Locke could see her injuries – at least a score of whip marks all over her back. Most were welt marks ranging in color from pink to dark red, but at last four or five still bled. 

Locke sat on the bed and began to clean her wounds with the washcloth. She didn't cry out, but Locke could feel her tense up with almost every touch, and he could hear her sharp intake of breath from time to time. He washed the area between her shoulders first and worked his way down to the three small red marks that interrupted the gentle curve of her buttocks. 

He then dried her and applied the salve, which he gingerly massaged into her wounds. She seemed less bothered by this, even moaning contentedly at times as the cool fluid soothed her. That done, he put gauze over the worst of the injuries and taped it in place. 

Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder and prompted her to roll over. She did so, and accepted his kiss. But when one hand strayed to her breast, she caught him by the wrist and pushed him aside roughly. 

Locke stepped back and looked incredulously at his hand, as if it had grasped her by its own will alone. 

"Celes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that." 

She said nothing as she stood up and walked to the small closet at the edge of the bed. 

The Falcon was not large enough to facilitate dedicated sleeping quarters to them and all their fellow adventurers, so they used the sort of "hot bunk" system where they would sleep in shifts. This room had been taken by Celes and Terra. There were a number of arguments on days both had been fighting and wanted rest, but more often than not Celes would back down and they would share the room, Celes sleeping uncomfortably but without complaint on the hard floor. She wouldn't admit it to her friends until long after, but she really did have a soft spot for Terra, an inexplicable love that was beyond sisterly. None of the men could understand the sort of connection between two women bound with magic, though they might see the pity Celes held for the girl. 

As their living quarters dictated, they shared the closet. It had been cleaned out long before, but still Celes found a few items left behind – a barrette, a comb, a length of pink ribbon, a single yellow stocking. Farther in back she found what she was looking for: a simple white cotton nightgown. 

She unfolded it and shook free the dust, sending up a cloud of particles that waved in the sunlight from the porthole. Locke watched her as she slipped the garment over hear head, which came down to her knees. She tugged at the elastic cuffs at her wrists and fastened the buttons in front up to her neck. 

The nightgown was very old, but not too bad off. She could see tiny moth holes here and there, but nothing indecent. She thought about the last time she had worn this, the last night she had slept in a bed in Vector. The night before she set off for Maranda. She tried to think of the name of the soldier who had given this to her, but her memory failed her. It was long ago, far too long. 

It was one of the few things she carried with her out of that cellar in South Figaro. Locke had saved her, and all she had were the clothes on her back, her Runic Blade, and her bag of supplies. Inside were a change of clothes and a bit of meat and bread, all of which she would use later on. But the nightgown served little purpose, as she knew she was in for many months of sleeping beneath the stars, and changing her clothes every night was not an option. She might have been able to do so at some of the more permanent Imperial encampments she had commanded, where she had a private tent and guards she trusted, but both of those were rare events in themselves. 

With the Returners such a luxury could not be had, and Celes wore her Imperial uniform day and night, taking it off only a few dozen times when she had the time and privacy to bathe in an available river. 

"Celes?" 

She looked up. Locke was watching her with concern. 

"You looked distant. Are you okay?" He paused, shook his head. "I mean, how bad are you?" 

Celes fingered the hem on one sleeve. "Not too bad, considering." She lowered her arms, breathed in slowly, and let it out. 

"Locke, I'm going to see Edgar now. I need to talk to him about a lot of things, and I need to talk to him alone." 

"I trust you," he said. 

Her hair hung in strange angles as she inclined her head. She wanted to be mad to what she perceived as sarcasm, but he looked too honest. He still looked hurt, and ashamed, but sincere. 

She nodded and left without a word, and as she stood in the hall and closed the door behind her, she smiled, just a little bit. 

_He really does love me._   
  
  
**III. DREAMS OF FIRE**

Relm talked to Edgar softly as she swabbed his forehead with a damp cloth. She didn't have much to say, but she talked anyway, hoping that he would come back to wherever his mind had gone by following her voice. She talked about living in Doma, about his brother – well, the parts that were appropriate – and her painting. She talked about her training, about how much she liked her home, about the weather. She whispered at times, laughed a little, though she found that hard to do. 

His fever was getting worse, and he seemed to drift in and out of consciousness every once in a while. In his dreams he called for his wife, and when he awoke he merely stared at Relm in disappointment, saying nothing. 

She sat up, startled, as she heard a knock at the door. Edgar mumbled and his eyes opened, darting around the room with confusion. 

"I'll be right back," she whispered lovingly into his ear. 

Relm opened the door and found Celes standing there in a white nightgown, her arms crossed over her chest. She leaned over the threshold to see him, and gasped as she saw a small wet patch in the blankets over his chest. 

"He's still bleeding," Celes said. 

Relm put an arm around the woman and turned her toward the door so that Edgar could not hear them. 

"His blood is thin with the poison," Relm whispered. "It's also given him a fever, and besides that he has a collapsed lung and a leg fracture from the fall." 

Celes put a hand over her mouth to stifle a wimper. Relm tightened her grip on her shoulder. 

"Be strong, now. It won't do him any good to see you crying for him. Makes it look like he's already dead. And he's _not_ dead, you hear me?" 

Celes nodded. She wiped her eyes and took a cleansing breath, and she felt ready. 

"Okay. Just give me a while to talk to him alone, alright?" 

"If he's in pain," Relm said, "if _anything_ happens, you call me, alright? I'll be right outside." 

Relm left and Celes closed the door behind her. She turned to Edgar, paused a second to steel her will, and sat down at the edge of his bed. 

He smiled, but only with his mouth. The pain in his eyes came through clear. 

"It seems I'm quite the popular one today. So many beautiful women lavishing their attentions on me." 

She let loose a half-laugh, half-sob, and though she was smiling too there were tears in her eyes. 

"I love you, Edgar. I love you so much." 

His hand clasped hers. 

"I loved you too. Ice Queen, we used to call you." He squeezed her hand. "But you're so warm, Celes. Hot. You were like fire to me." He loosed his grip, and his voice seemed to fade away like a cool breeze. "But that's all over now. It wasn't meant to be." 

She shook her head violently. "You don't know that! And even if it's true, who cares?" 

"You were meant for someone else, Celes. And he was meant for you. It's not my place to take you from Locke." 

"I don't belong to him," she sneered. "And I don't love him. Not after what he's done to you." 

Edgar shook his head. "He did nothing. I saw in his eyes when he cut that rope. I saw the struggle. I saw Morgan take hold of him. That man, that _demon_, he can control the minds of men and women. I know he can. It may have been Locke's hand that wielded that knife, but it was Morgan's will all the same." 

He smiled. "Besides, we all have one true love. I've already had mine. It would be the greatest injustice to take another." 

"Terra? But she's dead, Edgar." 

"I know she is. But she's still alive. In here." Edgar tapped his chest lightly through the blankets. "She's my conscience, Celes. I can't do her wrong. I can't take you, even if you want me too." 

She leaned toward him, pressing her face to the uninjured side of his chest, her golden hair pooling over him. 

"I can't ever love him again, Edgar. I just can't." 

She felt his arm encircle her shoulders as she cried. 

"Forgive him," he whispered into her ear. "Love him. Forgive him." 

She kissed his cheek, and when she leaned back she saw that his eyes failed to focus on her, and his mouth hung open, and the wheezing rumble of his breath was not to be heard. 

Celes screamed, and Relm burst through the doorway so fast that the molding broke loose and flew across the room.   
  
  
**IV. REFORMATION OF WIND**

Locke had given up the solitude of the empty cabin and instead taken up the solitude of the quarter-deck, the exposed section of the ship at the very aft of the _Falcon_. He leaned against the gunwale and stared at the clouds in the wake of the airship. He would rather have stood on the foredeck, but doing so would keep him in the company of Setzer as he piloted the ship, and he'd much rather be alone right now. 

The roar of the engines was enough that he didn't hear Relm approach until she grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. 

"Relm?" 

"Take out your blade," she shouted, just barely audible over the churning of the massive engines on either side of him. 

"What? Why?" 

"To make it fair." 

"Huh?" 

"Too late." 

With blinding speed she struck him hard in the face, breaking his nose for the second time that day. He nearly pitched backward off the deck, but he regained his balance, then fell to his knees. His face hurt too much to touch, and he gasped as he looked down and felt the blood pour from his nostrils and down the back of his throat. 

"You killed him, you bastard," Relm hissed. "I heard Celes and Edgar talking. I heard what you did to him." 

"Edgar's dead?" 

She kicked him in the ribs, sending him sprawling on the deck. 

"Of course he's dead. He didn't have a goddamn chance, between getting run through, getting poisoned, and your neat little trick of dropping him out of the fucking sky." 

She leaned down and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him to a stand. With seemingly little effort she lifted him off his feet. Here she was, a woman barely half his size, the muscles in her arms exposed to him and trembling slightly, the tendons in her neck visible, the strain in her chest so great that through her shirt he could see the size and definition of individual muscles as she flexed them, her pectorals tightening so much that her breasts seemed to double in size as they stretched against her shirt, large and feminine and strong. 

That was when he realized he couldn't breathe, and that she truly meant to kill him. 

"Relm, put him down." 

They both turned to where Celes stood, still in her nightgown. She held her hands to her sides, clasped in tight fists. Impatience shone through her. 

Relm lowered Locke to where he stood again, but did not relent her grip. 

"I heard everything," Relm yelled. "We know he killed Edgar." She shook Locke, who gagged on his own blood for a moment. "We can take turns if you like." 

Celes stepped toward them. "Edgar's last wish was for me to forgive Locke, and I'm going to try to fulfill that." She stepped so that she was face to face with Relm, only inches away. 

"Whatever he's done, he's my husband, and I won't let you hurt him." 

Relm growled. 

"Let him go. _Now_." Then, a bit less forcefully: "There's been enough killing today, Relm. I can't afford to lose someone else." 

Relm seemed to relax, letting go of Locke and patting him on the shoulders, as if to say it was all in good fun. She stepped backwards a bit, keeping her eyes on the two of them, her instincts preventing her from turning her back to them until well out of range. Then she turned and ran to below the superstructure on which they stood, disappearing belowdecks. 

Locke wrapped his bandana over his face to staunch the bleeding. Celes stepped toward him, and he backed away from her. She paused, opened her arms passively, and looked down. 

"I'm sorry for what I said. And for trying to hurt you. I'm sorry for everything," she said, looking at him fearfully. "I know it seems trite, but I can't argue with you anymore. I don't have it in me. I just hope we can forgive each other, and try to make the best of this godawful mess." 

She walked past him and leaned against the gunwale. The wind coming around the ship's superstructure pushed her hair forward, obscuring her face. The bottom of her nightgown was pulled tight across her legs and backside and flapped in the breeze. It conformed to her so well she might as well have been naked, and Locke turned to her and held her hand. 

"Aren't you cold, Celes?" 

She turned to him, her hair still in her face, stuck to her wet cheeks. 

"Always." 

He put his arms around her, and she allowed herself to burrow into him, to take his warmth, to survive in him. She stayed there for a while, feeling his hands all over her back, rubbing heat into her flesh, and staying above her waist in a gentlemanly fashion. 

Hand in hand, they walked to their cabin, talked a little, cried a little, and held each other. As the sun set, holding led to exploration, exploration led to lovemaking, and before the night was over they were husband and wife again, their marriage re-consummated and purified, and much that had happened in the days previous became as bad dreams to them and were quietly forgotten.   
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've read this section over at least a dozen times over the past few months, and I can't help but believe it's been over-edited, that I've become so familiar with it I can't even enjoy the words anymore. But every week it remains hidden on my hard drive it grows more stale, and it's best to present it now before I tire of the endevour completely. 

I have three completely contradictory stories written for Chapter 11, but I believe I picked out the best one and will have it revised and ready to go shortly. Unfortunately, if my work this coming January is as busy as it was for the past six months, I probably won't be writing again for a while. 

I can't say I'm terribly concerned about abandoning fanfiction, though. Fanfiction.net has changed significantly, and it seems I've lost a large number of my fans as well as one of my stories and the 80 reviews or so that came with it. I suppose I could go back and put the story together again, chapter by chapter, but I won't do so without some revision, and that will take time. 

What of the story itself? All I can say is that it's not over - the adventure continues in my mind, and sooner or later it will find its way to text. Edgar's death won't be trivialized by any means. 

I'll be accepting hosting offers so I can have a backup site in case of R-rated stories being ousted later on, but I'll probably be pretty picky with those. Email me if you think you'd like to help out. If you're familiar with my work you'd know I don't need much help editing, if any. 

-Scribe 


	11. Eleven

Locke Cole's Final Repose 

By Scribe of Figaro 

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

**I. LOYAL RETAINER**

"I'll tell him." 

It was the time of year when lilacs bloomed in Doma, and Relm noted them superficially as she marched the path from the city proper where the _Falcon_ idled to the countryside where Sabin would meditate at this time of day. 

She had argued with the others as they came here. Both Sabin and Cyan need be told, Sabin most importantly. No one wanted to be the one to tell him of the murder of his brother, but no one would yield the burden, either. 

Setzer had failed to reach Morgan in time, causing Edgar's death. He felt responsible. 

Celes was the one Edgar had been trying to save. She too felt responsible. 

Locke had delivered the killing blow, though Celes maintained he was tricked into doing so. Though he said nothing of the sort, he seemed more than hopeful that Sabin would take vengeance on him and free him of his guilt. 

And Relm. Her conscience was clean, at least in the events of the past few days. She had not even seen Edgar until he was cast headlong and dying into her arms. But she knew Sabin well, knew him better than she had ever known any man, and she felt she must above all serve her Master. She would not allow anyone else to be with him when he was told. She would not let them see his hurt, his pain, his sorrow, or his tears. She would protect his honor and his dignity above all else. 

She would find him in the dojo, tell him the news, stand with him for as long as he wished, forever if necessary, and she would never, ever tell another soul what she saw. 

Relm stopped at the road, where before her lay a bed of lilacs. Some children playing, perhaps, picked them from the bushes and spread them around. They had been left a while and trampled. She leaned down and touched the purple-black lifeblood that had been squeezed out and covered with dirt and dust. 

She studied the thick and pungent juice on the tip of her forefinger. She turned her finger as it dribbled down to her palm, causing some to stain her fingernails. 

She admired her own hand, the fingernails that were rarely painted these days and always cut short like a boy's. Her fingers were thin and her palm delicate, but should any man touch her hand - she couldn't recall anyone recently who had - he would feel the rough calluses of a fighter, a master of open-hand combat. Should one look closer, he would see the faint traces of scars, the places on her knuckles where she had spent hours punching canvas bags, wood, and eventually stone, the places where she had broken her calluses, bled, and continued striking. Such were the times when Sabin himself saw the increasing red ellipse on her striking surface, grab her arms, and shout at her in anger and horror as he shook her bloody fists. He would tell her that a true martial artist is always hurt but never injured, and doing this harm to herself would ruin her hands, breaking bones that would never heal properly. It hurt him to see her so obsessed, to see her use the art that was his work and life become the tool for her self-destructive tendencies. 

He cared for her wounds lovingly, and it was at that time she saw the empathy he had for her. There was love there. Real love. Not the sort of love between a master and student. Not the sort of love between a man and wife, or a man and his child. But there was something there, and she thought it romantic. 

_Life is so fragile_, she thought, _so how can I possibly deny myself the things I want so badly?_

She wiped her hand on the weeds beside the road, wiped the road dust from her thighs, and continued walking. 

Sabin meditated three times a day, the longest period beginning two hours before sunset and not ending until well after dark. It was barely dusk as she approached the marble steps leading to the dojo. She reached the platform, seeing Sabin still and silent in the waning light. Her shadow was long and passed over Sabin's face as she approached, though she would not get within a few yards of him. 

He kneeled with his hands on his knees, utterly silent, utterly still. Though he made no indication, she knew he was aware of her presence well before she passed near him, before she approached the stairs, before she mounted the hill nearby. He probably heard her footsteps, but had she been quieter he still would have detected her – he would have heard the sound of her clothes as she walked, the feel of the wind as it passed by her. That same breeze carried the scent of her body, and he knew that well by this time. He could taste it on the wind like a predator, or a lover, and know the person standing before him was Relm and only Relm. 

He also knew she would not disturb him. She kneeled obediently, a respectable distance away, and waited. 

She waited for nearly an hour and was not startled when he spoke. 

"Something is wrong," he said. It was matter-of-fact, forceful but distant. It was dark now, but she could still see well enough that he had not moved yet or even opened his eyes. 

"Yes," she said. 

"Tell me." 

She paused for a moment. She wanted to tell him slowly, to be ready to leap up and hug him, and tell him everything was alright. But that was not what Sabin wanted, and she would not disregard his wishes. 

"Celes was attacked and kidnapped by a master criminal from Zozo. Locke and Edgar went to rescue her. They killed the kidnapper, but Edgar was hurt badly and thrown overboard. Setzer and I arrived and tried to rescue him, but he died from his injuries late last night." 

There was the briefest pause in Sabin's breathing. 

"Death comes to all things," Sabin said. "One must not be saddened by the loss, but gladdened to have had something to lose." 

He paused for a moment. 

"Leave me. I must meditate further." 

She stood, and it took all the effort she had to obey. As she walked away, she could have sworn she heard him crying. 

**II. PREPARATION**

Relm was in her apartment for only a few minutes. She found a quarter-loaf of bread and a few slices of cheese in a cupboard that was rich enough to serve as her dinner. She ate this quickly, staring out the front window so that she would see Sabin when he passed by. 

As she brushed a few crumbs off her shirt she realized for the first time the dark red stains on her thighs and legs, and the smaller splotches on her chest and stomach, all sharply contrasting with the white of her clothes. The blood Edgar spilled. __

You informed Sabin of the death of his brother while you wore his blood. 

She shivered in shame and revulsion. __

You fool. You stupid, stupid bitch. 

She stripped where she stood, and as she balled her clothes up and carried them to the laundry pile, she felt the sensation that the smell of the blood had permeated into her skin, and that perhaps if she was going to make any effort at all to improve her appearance she may as well do it right. 

She drew a bath, waiting only for the water to get warm enough to be bearable, spending only a minute to rinse her hair, trying not to notice the slightly pink tinge the water took when she scrubbed herself. 

Ten minutes later she left her apartment wearing white cotton pants and a shirt, her unbuckled sandals slapping her feet as she walked, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that dripped water down her back. 

**III. FRIENDSHIP**

By the movement of the moon, Relm guessed that she had been sitting at Sabin's doorstop until well past midnight before he returned. The night watchman passed her twice, but paid her little attention. Like most of the people in this town, he knew who she was but did not have any reason to speak with her. He waved at her with his lamp the first time he passed. He pretended not to see her the second time. 

Relm, meanwhile, had nearly fallen asleep while waiting. She sat at the edge of a stair with her face in her hands, and didn't notice Sabin's approach until he was but a few steps from her. He stopped before her and she stood. 

"_Sensei_," she said. "We must go to Doma Castle as soon as you're able. Locke, Celes, and His Excellency are waiting for us." 

Sabin nodded. "What time do they expect us?" 

"I told them I wasn't sure how long you would want, so they're expecting us at anytime. There's no hurry, Sabin." 

Sabin opened the door. "Since this is no time to be received by Emperor Cyan, I think it would be best to have a few drinks to my brother's honor and then retire." 

He glanced over her in the moonlight. 

"Are you waiting for me to invite you in?" he asked. 

She said nothing. Sabin shook his head. 

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. Come in, please." 

She followed him inside. 

Sabin's apartment was sparsely decorated. There was a couch for entertaining guests, a comfortable chair facing it where he would smoke his pipe on cold evenings, and a few wall hangings. The kitchen was small but functional and clean. 

Whatever rooms existed beyond his hallway – bedrooms, perhaps an office or a shrine – she had yet to see. 

She waited in the living room as he took a bottle and two glasses from the kitchen. He placed them on the rickety coffee table between them. 

"The best wine Figaro has to offer," he said as he poured her a glass. He then poured his own glass and studied it. She read his face, the small lines of worry crossing them, and knew that it wasn't the finest wine Figaro had to offer, that Sabin had no idea what a fine wine tasted like, and would not recognize it if it was set before him. She read him clearly, and though anyone else would see nothing through his stony expression, Relm understood the doubt in his mind, the feelings of inadequacy for a long and difficult job that stood open to him. 

"I don't know what to say," he said. "I've lost my brother, and it seems my life here is over as well. I'm the King of Figaro now, I suppose." 

Relm nodded. 

"A damnable lot." He turned the half-full glass back and forth in his hand. "Ah well. To Edgar." 

Sabin drank quickly. Relm found the wine harsh to the taste. It was surely very strong wine, but she made sure to drink as quickly as Sabin did. She was used to alcohol, but Sabin had nearly twice her weight, and she felt a bit light-headed only after one glass. Still, she did not hesitate when offered a second. 

"This drink is to you, Relm." 

"_Sensei_?" 

"No longer. I need someone to take my place here, and there are few of my students able." 

Sabin walked to the corner of the room and picked up a small wooden box. He pulled the chair closer to the sofa so he was within arm's length of Relm, placed the box between them, and opened it. 

Inside was a patch about the size of her hand. It depicted a dragon curled around the crest of Figaro. The background depicted what were surely the snow-capped peaked of Mount Koltz. Lettering in a language she did not understand followed the curl of the dragon's body. 

"Relm, you've shown incredible progress, and I realized a short time ago that there is nothing left for me to teach you." 

Sabin handed the patch to her. She took it carefully in her hands, like something alive, and held it just above her lap. 

"I have a number of insignias of my school that all my students will receive, showing that they were under my training. But this one is special. This seal, and only this seal, is a symbol of the completion of my training program." 

He kneeled on the floor beside her and held her hands. 

"You are my student no more, Relm. I name you master of _Figaro kung-fu_." 

He squeezed her hands. 

"You have shown me nearly a decade of servitude, and I am thankful. I could not have asked a better person to take my legacy." 

"Your legacy?" 

"I can't teach anymore. You and Tony are the only ones who I will graduate. One of you must stay behind to teach the others. I want their teacher to be you, Relm." 

She jumped up from the couch and paced back and forth, clutching the insignia in her hands. 

"Relm?" 

"I . . . I'm honored, Sabin. I'm honored, but . . ." She shook her head from side to side. 

She leaned her back against the wall and slid down to her knees. 

Sabin stood. "It's overwhelming, and I'm sorry to shock you like this. I guess I should have kept you more aware of your progress. I _know_ you're the best person for this. You're leagues above all the other students. They all fear and respect you as they do me. Don't think for even a minute that you can't do this, and do a better job than I ever could." 

Relm took in a deep breath. 

"It's not that. If you're that sure of me, then I believe you. But as much as I've loved being your student, I don't want to be a teacher. It's never been my way to teach. I love life, I love learning, and I love art – all kinds of art. Sculpture, painting, and the human body itself." She shook her head. "But I don't want to teach what I know. I'm not at that point yet where I feel I know enough. And I don't have the commitment you have. I . . . god, I'm selfish, Sabin, but I just don't want to!" 

He kneeled down before her and put his hands on her shoulders. 

"It's alright, Relm. I'm not offended. To be honest, I'm disappointed, but that will pass. My path has been chosen for me, but that was fate's doing. I'm not about to force you into a life you don't want." 

She hugged him. 

"I'm sorry, Sabin. I wish I could help you. You've been so kind to me all these years. You've never asked for my help until now. . ." 

"I'm graduating Tony as well. I'm sure he will do almost as good a job. And if he doesn't . . . well, then, he doesn't. It's my responsibility, not yours. Don't dwell on it any longer." 

She looked up at him and smiled, failing to hide the fact that her eyes were suffering a reddish tinge from tears just barely held back. Some part of her wanted to draw out this fantasy where he continually reassured her, comforted her all the way to his bedroom, but the strain and wear in his soul must have been great this day, and she would not continue an emotional conversation that he clearly wanted to end. 

"Thank you," she said. 

Sabin nodded and turned to retrieve their wine glasses. 

"So, then, what will you do now, with me gone?" he asked. 

She stood up and received her newly-filled glass from his hand. 

"Well, I don't have too many connections in Doma, really. I've painted everything and everyone in town by now. I'd like to go with you to Figaro." 

Sabin smiled. "Really?" 

"Absolutely. After all, you'll need a retainer." 

Sabin nearly choked. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, gasping. 

"A . . . a retainer? You want to be my _bodyguard_?" 

She laughed. "Why not? You said yourself I know everything you know. And it's not like you're going to be in prime physical shape all the time anymore." Her laughter settled as she registered the hurt that caused him. "I mean, you'll still look amazing, and be strong as hell, but you can't expect to be an all-powerful combat machine and run a kingdom at the same time." 

He put down his wine, apparently finished with alcohol for the night. He looked worn, and tired, and perhaps a bit disturbed by her latest words, but clearly part of him was amused by the idea of her being his protector. 

"Look," she said. "Here's the deal. Tomorrow, we can meet with Cyan, Locke, and Celes, and discuss arrangements. I challenge you to a match before then. At dawn, at the dojo, I'll be waiting for you. If I defeat you, you will accept me as your retainer and I will continue to serve you." 

Sabin chuckled lightly. "And if I win?" 

"Don't worry. You won't." 

"It won't be fair without terms, Relm." 

"Then pick something. Anything." 

Sabin mused for a moment. 

"I'm afraid I can't think of anything. But I'm sure it would be something very embarrassing." 

She smiled. "Good. I'll have something to laugh at tomorrow when you tell me about it." 

They shook hands, Relm handed him her wine glass, and she left for the evening. 

"See you at sunrise," she said. 

Sabin waited for a moment after she left, then raised up his glass and studied it. 

"She's going to slaughter me," he muttered. 

**IV. THE CONTEST**

She was waiting for him at the dojo, ending her meditation as he approached. He was usually quite early, but clearly she was eager to welcome him there. 

He bowed to her as he entered the dojo, and was surprised to find the area shining and spotless. Normally it was he who began the cleaning ritual alone at this time, but clearly Relm had done so already. 

She stood now, and Sabin took the opportunity to assess his student. She wore as always loose cotton pants and sandals, a tight tank top, and her hair was tied back with what appeared to be a black scarf. It dawned on her that this was clearly a scrap of clothing given to her by Shadow, the lone assassin that had allied with them against Kefka but disappeared. She had kept his dog until it died several years ago, and it was rumored among all of them that Shadow was related to her. Were it true, only Strago, and perhaps Relm herself, would know for sure. Now Sabin came to believe she was in fact his daughter, and she wore his scarf to honor him on the day she would surpass her teacher. 

Sabin grinned, thoroughly excited now. He flexed his muscles and clasped his hands together, bowing reverently to her. 

"I've been waiting for this a long time, Relm. If I'm as good an instructor as I hope I am, then you will defeat me." 

Relm bowed in turn. 

"This will be full-contact, full endurance. We fight until one of us yields, or is too badly injured to call 'yield.'" 

Sabin nodded. "As it should be." But there was a mild hesitation in his voice. He had no qualms with striking her, as it was clear he considered them now at an equal level. But the thought of him breaking her bones, of killing her, was something that clearly frightened him. 

Relm noticed this with distaste as she stretched out her arms in a defensive posture of her own design. 

"I don't care if you break me in half," she hissed. "But if you hold back at all for even an instant before I call yield, I will hate you." 

With a feral cry she launched herself at him. 

Sabin blocked her bicycle kick to his chest with a sweeping block of the arms, trapping one foot in his elbow and throwing her across the dojo. She landed on her back, bounced, and backwards-somersaulted to a kneeling position. In the next breath she sprang forth again with the energy stored in her legs, hands outstretched toward Sabin's throat. 

He brought his hands up to block, but she grabbed at his forearms and spun her body around him. Now she was behind him, wrapping one leg around his waist and the other around his thigh. He grabbed at her ankle to pull her loose, but before he could do so she wrapped her right arm around his neck and punched him hard in the kidney with her left. 

Sabin elbowed her in the waist and then backhanded her. She jumped backward and he turned to face her. 

Relm spat blood and crouched into a tiger stance. 

_Dear god_, Sabin thought. _My back is numb. I had no idea she could hit that hard._

She attacked, hands open and scratching at the less-than-perfect blocks Sabin attempted. He felt her nails rake across his forearms, drawing blood, and found himself being backed closer and closer to the back wall of the dojo. 

Then she made the smallest of mistakes – bringing her hands up too high, trying for his face. He trapped her arms and brought his knee up, contacting her in the abdomen, striking hard. 

Her face went pale instantly, and the pain that radiated from it made him forget himself. 

The moment he loosened his grip on her, however, she bashed him in the nose with the heel of her palm. Sabin stumbled and might have fallen over save the wall behind him that he found himself leaning against. Stars flew before his eyes. 

She gripped her belly, gasping in quick breaths. 

"You . . .hes. . .i. . .ta. . .ted." She dry-heaved. "You-fah-king-bas.. . tard." 

Sabin shook his head, finding his vision returning. She stood before him, a bit hunched over, her left arm trembling as it guarded her chest, her body avoiding the logic of combat and fighting her mind to control that arm, to nurse her current injuries. Her right fist was balled up a bit higher. 

_It looks almost like monkey stance. But I've never taught her that. No one has. Did it just come naturally to her in this posture?_

Her face was still quite pale, and a stream of blood still dripped from her otherwise ashen lips. She watched him as he regained his balance, took a step away from the back wall of the dojo, and regained his combat stance. 

The instant she saw him prepared for her she was upon him, and he realized with a mixture of shock, horror, and absolute pleasure that she had been holding back. She was twice as quick as he thought. 

All the pleasure in that thought quickly drained out as her fist drove into his chest. He felt ribs give, and for a stricken moment believed her hand had pierced him. 

Then came her left, driving straight and true into his gut. He doubled over, and found Relm's right fist balled up to meet his chin. 

His head banged against the wooden wall behind him, and for the first time in his life he found himself on the receiving end of the Bum Rush. Four more solid blows struck his chest. 

As the last blow fell, so did he. The strength drained from him like water. His left leg gave first, the world tilted to the right, and he found himself on his side, gasping for breath. 

He felt her standing above him. 

"Yehieeeeld," he gasped, sounding like air escaping from a balloon. 

She crouched down before his face. 

"You sure? You went down pretty easy, I thought." 

He grabbed at her ankle, and he was sure the only way he succeeded was because she let him. He had no strength in him, and she knew it. 

She pulled his hand loose of her foot and squeezed it. 

"Not a bad match, I guess. I should have asked for more, though." 

"Like what?" he asked. He was beginning to catch his breath, but still found it nearly impossible to move. 

"Marriage would be nice," she said. Smiling with an evil, catlike expression, she looked him over. "You're glad I'm such a well-disciplined woman, or I'd be liable to take advantage of you, laid out as you are." 

Only a few days ago Sabin would have slapped her for such an utterance, but he merely laughed, and winced a little. He rolled on his back and stared up at the clouds. 

"You know, Relm, I remember something Edgar said to me once. He said I was too damn pigheaded, that I'd never marry a woman because there wasn't one out there with the guts or the strength to knock some sense into me and show me the ways of the world. I've been thinking about that lately, and it occurred to me that the only woman I could ever love would have to be someone strong. I mean, really strong. Someone who would fight me and win." 

She leaned over him, smiling. 

"I've been the only one, haven't I?" 

"Yes." 

She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the lips. He gently took her head in his arms, running his fingers through her hair, and suddenly he found her slipping away from him. 

She extended a hand to him, letting him up, and he gently began touching his face and chest, inspecting the damage there. 

"We both look like hell," he said. 

She reached into a pack she brought with her and left in a corner of the dojo. Inside were a few powerful potions. She handed one to him. 

"Rest for an hour and you'll be fine. You want to meet at Castle Doma at noon?" 

"Sounds good," he said. Quickly he drained the vial. 

She turned to walk away as he kneeled for his morning meditation, but stopped. 

"You never told me your demands. What would you ask for if you won, Sabin?" 

Sabin blushed and turned away from her. "It's not important." 

She giggled. This would be good. "Oh, come on now. Tell me!" 

He sighed. "Keep in mind I only came up with this because I knew from the start I would lose, and had I by some miracle won I would ask for something different." 

"Just spit it out, Sabin." 

"Relm, if you had lost, my demand would have been for you to go on a date with me." 

Time froze. It seemed the birds chirping in the morning mist all about them suddenly stopped all at once. 

Relm raised both hands to her face and burst out laughing. 

"Oh my god! That's so sweet!" 

Sabin looked down. "It's not sweet, it's stupid. And sick, for god's sake. I don't know what I was thinking. I've known you since you were a kid. Damn near raised you." 

She slung her pack on her shoulder and walked behind him, rubbing his shoulders. "First off, if I was ever a kid, it was well before you met me. You helped me out a lot, but you're not my guardian, and I sure as hell never thought of you as a father. Strago raised me, then I raised myself." 

She gripped his shoulders a bit harder. 

"Second, I'm a woman, and even though you might be fifteen years older than me, that does not make me a child." 

"Third," she said, now leaning close to his ear and whispering, "I would have gladly gone on a date with you, and since I'm the sort to go for the gusto, I would probably have gone all the way." 

She was off and running before he could reply, but the flustered utterances of Sabin were so well known to her she could imagine them as she ran. 

**Author's notes:**

I wrote this chapter in December 2002, found it earlier this evening while re-organizing some files, and decided to revise, format, and post it. I think it's more my lack of inspiration for this story than the lack of reader feedback that's caused me to can it for so long. Perhaps replaying the game would rekindle my interest. 

My ultimate plan for my Final Fantasy Six fanfiction begins with re-tooling "Terra Branford's Flight of Fancy" in a heavily-rewritten version, the most important factors of which include the removal of multiple inappropriate acts of "slashness" and a significant tightening of a meandering, angsty, and somewhat embarrassing plotline. I'd leave it to rot on my hard drive if I could, but the Gods of Continuity require me to ensure events alluded to in "Locke Cole's Final Repose" exist in some written form. 

The final goal, though perhaps unapproachable, is a complete four-volume pseudo-epic. "Flight of Fancy" will be pruned down and split into two shorter consecutive stories, making "Final Repose" the third. The story arc will be wrapped up entirely in a fourth story, as yet unwritten, in which discontent over Sabin's ascention to the Throne of Figaro climaxes in an attempted overthrow. 

Final note: Relm is a tease and a pervert. Not a slut. 

(Chapter written December 7 2002; posted June 23 2003) 


End file.
